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THE 


BATTLE    INVISIBLE 


AND    OTHER    STORIES 


BY 


ELEANOR  C.  REED 


CHICAGO 

A.   C.  McCLURG  &  CO. 

1 901 


COPYRIGHT 

BY  A.   C.   McCLURG  &  CO. 

A.   D.    1901 


DEDICATED    TO    MY    SISTER 
DELL    S.    GROSS 


999Q 


CONTENTS 

The  Battle  Invisible       -           -           -  -            7 

Patience  and  Prudence         .           -           -  69 

Transplanted           .           .           .           .  .         103 

ToLLivER's  Fool             ....  155 

The  Widow  Perkins           .           .           -  -         277 


THE  BATTLE  INVISIBLE 


THE  BATTLE  INVISIBLE 

Court  was  dismissed.  The  jury,  after  sit- 
ting all  night  and  nearly  all  day,  had  found  the 
prisoner  not  guilty. 

Solomon  Stone,  once  more  a  free  man, 
walked  with  an  unsteady  step  and  a  haggard 
face  from  the  court  room,  and  with  his  attorney 
drove  away.  The  throng  of  men  that  had  at- 
tended the  trial  from  beginning  to  end,  each  a 
self  appointed  judge,  gathered  in  groups  of 
twos  and  threes  on  and  about  the  court-house 
steps,  and  discussed  the  case.  Every  face  was 
either  stern  or  serious.  There  were  many 
emphatic  gestures  in  the  different  clusters. 
Some  spoke  in  low  confidential  tones,  others 
argumentatively,  while  a  few  voices  were  loud 
in  anger  and  replete  with  threats.  These  were 
the  friends  of  Nathan  Overton  who  had  died, 
they  claimed,  from  the  effects  of  a  blow  dealt 
him  on  the  head  by  Solomon  Stone. 

The  two  men  were  neighbors,  and  had  quar- 
reled over  a  blooded  colt  which  both  claimed. 
Solomon  sued  Nathan  for  the  possession  of  the 

9 


10  THE    BATTIvE    INVISIBLE 

animal,  and  the  court  decided  in  Nathan's  favor. 
Solomon  appealed,  and  lost  again. 

A  few  weeks  after  the  last  trial,  the  men  met 
on  the  river  bridge,  which  was  just  wide  enough 
for  teams  to  pass  one  another  if  each  kept  on 
his  own  side.  Solomon  was  on  his  way  home 
from  town,  and  Nathan  was  driving  to  town 
with  a  load  of  corn.  It  is  not  known  which 
driver  was  out  of  his  track,  but  they  locked 
wheels,  and  neither  would  give  way  and  back  up. 
F'inally  Solomon,  beside  himself  with  anger, 
whipped  up  his  horses  and,  having  the  better 
team  and  the  stronger  wagon,  took  Nathan's 
wheel  off.  Nathan,  white  and  shaking  with 
wrath,  hurled  an  ear  of  corn  at  his  enemy,  the 
butt  end  of  which  struck  him  in  the  mouth  and 
knocked  out  a  tooth.  It  was  then  that 
Solomon,  enraged  with  pain  and  the  sight  of 
blood,  struck  the  blow  with  the  heavy  end  of 
his  whip  that  ended  the  quarrel  at  once  and 
forever.  Nathan  dropped  like  a  stone  and  lay 
unconscious  for  hours.  Solomon  washed  the 
blood  from  his  enemy's  face,  and,  believing  him 
dead,  drove  back  to  town  and  gave  himself  up. 
Nathan  recovered  consciousness,  but  died  the 
next  day. 

There  was  much  conflicting  testimony  in 
court.     Some  of  the  doctors  contended  that  the 


THE     BATTLE     INVISIBLE  H 

cause  of  Nathan  Overton's  death  was  heart  dis- 
ease brought  on  by  the  excitement  of  the 
quarrel ;  that  the  blow  was  a  glancing  one  and 
not  sufficient  to  cause  death. 

It  was  also  declared  that  Nathan's  doctor  had 
warned  him  that  his  heart  was  seriously  affected, 
and  that  any  undue  excitement  might  be  fatal  to 
him;  which  evidence,  however,  was  stoutly 
denied  by  the  doctor  himself.  Nathan's  wife 
admitted  on  cross-examination  that,  a  month 
before  Nathan's  death,  she  had  remarked  to  a 
neighbor  that  she  was  going  to  try  to  persuade 
him  not  to  go  to  the  polls  during  the  election, 
as  she  feared  the  excitement  might  have  a  bad 
effect. 

Some  of  Nathan  Overton's  friends  said  openly 
that  Solomon  Stone's  money  was  all  that  saved 
him.  Solomon  had  been  obliged  to  mortgage 
his  farm,  for  which  he  had  worked  and  saved 
all  his  life,  to  get  the  means  with  which  to 
defend  himself.  He  had  been  called  rich  by 
the  neighbors,  because  he  owned  a  well  stocked 
farm  of  a  hundred  acres  and  owed  no  man  a 
cent.  Now,  at  the  age  of  sixty,  the  struggle 
was  before  him  of  saving  his  hardly  earned  prop- 
erty from  the  incumbrance  that  a  moment  of 
uncontrolled  passion  had  laid  upon  it. 

At  the  age  of  thirty-two,  Solomon  Stone  had 


12  THE    BATTLE    INVISIBLE 

fallen  deeply  in  love  with  a  young  girl  of  seven- 
teen, the  daughter  of  a  Congregational  minister, 
of  whose  church  the  young  man  was  a  member. 

Louisa  Claybourne  was  of  the  dark  French 
type.  She  was  witty  and  beautiful,  and  had 
been  brought  up  with  great  care ;  but  she  had  a 
vivid  imagination  and,  unfortunately,  an  innate 
tendency  toward  romance  and  adventure. 

Her  father,  a  serious  student  and  an  earnest 
worker,  essayed  to  correct  the  unhealthy  trend 
of  his  daughter's  mind,  by  keeping  her  occupied 
with  the  study  of  history  and  the  bible;  but 
every  now  and  then,  in  spite  of  his  indefatigable 
eflforts,  the  springs  of  romance  would  bubble  up 
through  the  pages  of  Macaulay,  Gibbon,  and 
Paul's  Epistle  to  the  Romans. 

Louisa  was  universally  loved  for  her  kindness 
of  heart,  sweet  temper,  and  charming  manner. 
She  was  extremely  emotional  and,  though  un- 
conscious of  her  gift,  had  the  power  to  play 
upon  the  emotions  of  others.  Her  eyes  were  of 
the  kind  that  speak ;  that  rise  and  fall  with  every 
wave  of  feeling;  that  in  the  same  moment  can 
sparkle  with  fun  and  melt  with  melancholy. 

Louisa's  father  objected  to  Solomon  Stone's 
proposal  of  marriage  on  the  ground  that  the 
difference  between  their  ages  was  too  great. 
The  lover  was  in  no  way  discouraged  by  this; 


THE     BATTIvE    INVISIBLE  13 

he  felt  sure  that  the  objection,  which  was  not 
strong,  could  be  overcome.  Louisa,  however, 
was  less  complaisant.  This  was  just  the  oppor- 
tunity, it  seemed  to  her,  to  feast  her  hungry- 
soul  on  the  adventure  she  craved.  Although 
her  vSuitor  had  never  received  anything  but  the 
kindest  treatment  from  her  parents,  she  insisted 
upon  a  secret  rendezvous  in  the  woods,  a 
clandestine  correspondence,  and  finally,  when 
weary  of  these,  a  runaway  marriage;  all  of 
these  things  were  most  distasteful  to  her 
straightforward,  matter-of-fact  lover  and  hus- 
band. 

Two  years  of  humdrum,  changeless  life  as  a 
farmer's  wife  were  all  that  the  visionary  Louisa 
could  stand.  When  their  little  daughter,  Char- 
lotte Alvarella  Cushman  Stone,  was  seven 
months  old,  the  young  mother  ran  away  with  a 
third-rate  landscape  painter.  Although  he 
ruined  his  best  horse  in  doing  it,  Solomon  Stone 
overtook  the  elopers  before  they  had  reached 
the  nearest  railway  station,  thrashed  the  would- 
be  destroyer  of  his  wife  into  insensibility  and, 
without  a  single  word  of  reproach  to  his  weep- 
ing Louisa,  took  her  back  to  her  father's  house ; 
the  baby,  whom  she  had  taken  away  with  her, 
he  carried  back  to  his  deserted  home. 

Louisa  Stone's  thirst  for  adventure  was  quite 


14  THE     BATTLE     INVISIBLE 

sated  by  this  her  first  and  last  disgraceful 
escapade.  From  that  time  on,  she  devoted  her- 
self to  the  care  of  her  invalid  mother  until  the 
old  lady  died,  and  to  the  works  of  charity  con- 
nected with  her  father's  church. 

Many  and  strenuous  were  the  efforts  made 
by  friends  and  relatives  of  both  families  to  bring 
about  a  reconciliation  between  the  estranged 
pair,  but  without  avail.  Solomon  was  inexora- 
ble; he  would  have  none  of  her. 

Fearing  that  the  young  woman  would  lose  her 
mind  in  consequence  of  the  separation  from  her 
baby,  her  father,  the  Rev.  Alfred  Claybourne, 
succeeded,  after  much  persuasion,  in  obtaining 
Solomon's  consent  to  let  the  young  mother  see 
her  child  on  specified  days,  amounting  to  six 
times  a  year.  Concealed  by  some  tree  or  shrub, 
Louisa  would  often  stand  for  hours  on  dark 
nights  as  near  as  she  dared  venture  to  her  hus- 
band's house,  hoping  to  get  a  glimpse  of  the 
little  one  through  a  window.  At  the  sight  of 
her  husband,  she  would  flee  Hke  a  frightened 
deer.  Although  he  had  always  treated  her  with 
the  utmost  kindness,  she  now  stood  in  terror 
of  him.     Such  was  the  life  of  Louisa  Stone. 

The  wound  in  Solomon's  heart  had  grown 
callous  and  hardened  his  whole  nature.  He 
charged  his  wrongs,  not  to  the  weakness  of  a 


THE    BATTLE    INVISIBLE  15 

woman,  but  to  the  weakness  of  women.  Every 
daughter  of  Eve  bore  a  share  of  the  shame  and 
was  voted  frail,  unstable,  and  faithless  in  blood 
and  bone.  He  never  spoke  to  a  woman,  out- 
side of  his  own  family,  if  he  could  decently  get 
around  it,  and  he  gave  up  going  to  church  for 
no  other  reason  than  to  avoid  speaking  to  and 
shaking  hands  with  the  numerous  women  of  the 
congregation. 

Solomon's  house  had  a  veranda  extending 
across  the  front  and  down  one  side.  He  was 
wont  to  sit  on  the  side  veranda  on  warm  after- 
noons and  evenings ;  it  was  his  favorite  retreat. 
From  here  there  was  an  unrestricted  view  of  the 
beautiful  winding  valley,  the  river  and  the 
wooded  hills  beyond.  It  was  here  Solomon  sat 
with  his  apples  and  cider  and  read  his  weekly 
papers;  it  was  here  he  received  his  visitors;  it 
was  here  he  rested  his  iron  grey  head  against 
the  calico  pillow  and  dozed  in  his  easy  chair; 
it  was  here  that  his  little  Alva  climbed  upon  his 
knee  when  tired  with  play,  and  with  slowly  clos- 
ing eyelids,  fell  asleep  in  his  arms. 

The  Widow  Bodkins  owned  the  farm  adjoin- 
ing Solomon's  on  the  east.  She  built  a  house 
close  to  his,  with  a  side  veranda  facing  his 
own,  and  moved  into  it.  The  widow's  house 
was  small,  not  more  than  half  so  large  as  her 


16  THE    BATTLE    INVISIBLE 

neighbor's,  and  it  cut  off  but  little  of  the  view; 
but  Solomon  found  it  impossible  longer  to  enjoy 
gazing  at  the  beautiful  green  valley  with  its 
tracery  of  liquid  silver,  the  woods  and  the  purple 
hills  beyond,  because  the  portly  figure  of  the 
Widow  Bodkins,  either  real  or  imaginary, 
always  obtruded  itself  into  the  southeast  corner 
of  the  picture,  try  as  he  would  to  shut  it  out. 

There  was  only  a  fence,  two  narrow  strips  of 
grass,  and  a  double  row  of  gooseberry  bushes 
between  the  two  houses.  The  widow  was  also 
fond  of  sitting  on  her  side  veratida  on  warm 
afternoons,  for,  although  it  faced  the  west,  the 
tall  house  of  her  neighbor  cast  a  protecting 
shade  over  it. 

Whenever  Salina  Bodkins  lifted  her  black 
eyes  from  her  knitting  and  looked  over  towards 
Solomon  Stone  (a  woman  must  look  some- 
where), he  felt  as  if  he  had  been  shot  at.  They 
never  spoke  to  one  another,  and  Solomon  was 
kept  constantly  in  a  state  of  irritation  because, 
every  now  and  then  in  unguarded  moments,  the 
widow  would  glance  up  suddenly  and  find  his 
eyes  fixed  upon  her.  When  Salina  first  moved 
into  her  new  house,  she  saluted  her  neighbor  at 
different  times,  with  just  a  touch  of  the  old  time 
courtesy,  but  as  he  paid  no  attention  to  her  by 
even  so  much  as  a  nod,  she  gave  it  up. 


THE     BATTLE     INVISIBLE  17 

"I'm  curious  to  know  what's  back  of  all  that," 
she  said  one  day  to  her  cousin,  Mary  Bodkins. 
Salina  was  charitable  to  faults  and  abnormal 
conditions,  because  she  made  a  study,  in  her 
own  crude  way,  of  cause  and  effect. 

"All  the  queer  things  we  see  in  folks,  Mary, 
air  shadows  of  other  things  we  can't  see  till  we 
hunt  'em  up.  When  the  sunshine  doubles  up 
and  jumps  into  your  face  all  of  a  sudden,  an' 
a'most  puts  your  eyes  out,  you  can  just  make 
up  your  mind  that  there's  a  boy  not  far  away 
having  fun  with  a  piece  o'  lookin'  glass." 

"That's  so,  S'liny,  I've  alius  noticed  it,"  re- 
plied Mary.  "Nobody  could  wad  up  sunshine 
an'  throw  it  in  folk's  faces  with  their  bare 
hands." 

Mary  Bodkins  was  an  old  maid  cousin  of 
Salina's,  with  whom  she  had  lived  for  more  than 
twenty  years.  She  was  a  tall,  thin  old  woman 
with  a  corpse-like  face,  and  hands  that  were 
suggestive  of  the  claws  of  a  bird.  She  had  hip 
disease  and  walked  with  a  crutch.  Mary  had 
unlimited  faith  in  her  cousin,  and  she  rarely 
ventured  an  opinion  without  first  testing  it  in 
Salina's  mental  moulds. 

Early  one  morning,  three  weeks  after  the 
Widow  Bodkins  had  moved  into  her  new  house, 
she  heard  the  sound  of  a  hammer  and  the  rip- 


18  THE    BATTLE    INVISIBLE 

ping  and  splitting  of  boards.  She  got  up  and 
peeped  through  the  bHnds  to  see  what  it  meant. 
Solomon  Stone  was  tearing  down  his  veranda. 
He  did  it  carefully,  carried  the  boards  around  to 
the  opposite  side  of  the  house,  and  rebuilt  it 
there ;  then  he  tore  out  and  boarded  up  the  only- 
window  on  the  first  floor  looking  toward  the 
widow's  house. 

Solomon's  half  sister,  Lucinda  Stone,  had 
lived  with  him  and  taken  care  of  his  child  and 
the  house  ever  since  his  wife  left  him.  Some 
thought  Lucinda  did  wrong  to  stay  with  her 
brother  and  make  everything  so  easy  and 
comfortable  for  him;  it  added,  they  opined,  to 
the  diflficulty  of  bringing  about  a  reconciliation. 
Lucinda  knew  her  brother's  feelings  better  than 
any  one  else,  she  thought,  and  she  felt  sure  that 
a  reunion  between  Solomon  and  Louisa  could 
never  be  effected,  notwithstanding  the  young 
wife's  present  irreproachable  life  (of  which  they 
made  much).  Accordingly  she  could  not  see 
that  it  was  her  duty  to  let  the  baby  suffer  for  the 
sake  of  an  experiment,  or  to  convince  other 
people  that  when  her  brother  said  anything  he 
meant  it. 

Solomon's  daughter,  Charlotte  Alvarella 
Cushman  Stone,  grew  into  a  beautiful  woman. 
She  had  the  dark,  lustrous  eyes  and  shining. 


THE     BATTIvE     INVISIBIvE  19 

black  hair  of  her  mother,  and  her  keen  vivacious 
ways,  with  the  inflexible  will  and  calm  but  stub- 
born determination  of  her  father.  A  profound 
affection  existed  between  Solomon  and  his 
daughter,  and  they  were  usually  of  one  mind ; 
but  when  their  wills  were  opposed  and  came  in 
contact,  "fire  flew,"  as  Lucinda  expressed  it; 
both  were  as  unyielding  as  flint. 

Lucinda  Stone  sat  on  the  veranda  crochet- 
ing. Her  niece  sat  on  the  steps  at  her  feet.  It 
was  a  warm  afternoon  in  June,  and  the  air  was 
heavy  with  the  odor  of  roses  that  blossomed 
about  the  yard  in  the  wildest  confusion,  and 
almost  covered  the  long,  narrow  veranda.  Alva 
was  watching  a  honey  bee  that  was  crawling  in 
and  out  among  the  petals  of  a  pink  rose  she 
held  in  her  fingers,  but  her  thoughts  were  else- 
where. 

"Don't  put  that  rose  in  your  hair,  Alva." 

The  girl  looked  up  quickly  into  her  aunt's 
face  with  a  shade  of  displeasure  in  her  eyes. 

"Why  do  you  dislike  to  have  me  wear  flowers, 
Aunt  Lucinda?  I  rarely  touch  one  to  put  it 
on  that  you  do  not,  at  least,  look  as  if  you  would 
rather  I  wouldn't.  You  certainly  don't  dislike, 
roses,  and  I  do  love  them  so." 

"No,  my  child,  I  Hke  all  kinds  o'  flowers; 
nobody  could  hke  'em  better;  but  I  think  you 


20  THE     BATTLE     INVISIBLE 

wear  too  many.  You've  got  two  pink  moss 
roses  with  three  buds  in  your  hair  now,  and 
three  big  white  ones  in  your  belt.  Now,  it 
'pears  to  me,  that  you  had  ort  to  be  more  careful 
what  you  wear,  Alvarella.  Your  eyes  are  so  big 
and  dark,  and  when  you  git  your  light  dresses 
on  with  ribbons  and  roses,  it  gives  you  such  a 
kind  of  a  skittish  look,  that  it  a'most  scares  me, 
an'  you  mus'  remember,  Alva,  that  'pretty  is  as 
pretty  does.'  " 

Ivucinda  really  meant  that  her  niece  looked 
alarmingly  handsome,  but  she  could  not  have 
been  induced  to  tell  Alva  that  she  looked  any- 
thing but  "skittish"  or  "flippy."  Lucinda 
dreaded  beauty  as  she  would  have  dreaded  a 
plague.  She  believed  that  her  brother's  happi- 
ness had  been  ruined  by  the  beauty  of  Alva's 
mother. 

The  young  girl  arose  without  replying,  and 
tied  on  her  hat.  The  old  lady  watched  her  with 
anxious  eyes. 

"So  you've  decided  to  go,  have  you,  Alva?" 

"Yes,"  replied  her  niece,  closing  her  lips 
firmly. 

"But  your  father,  child,  think  of  your  poor 
father  and  what  he  said." 

"If  father  could  give  any  good  reasons  for 
his  objection.  Aunt  Lucinda,  I  certainly  would 


THE     BATTLE     INVISIBLE  21 

listen  to  him.  I'm  not  blind,  if  I  am  in  love; 
but  he  can  give  none.  Nathan  Overton's  name 
is  all  the  fault  father  can  find  in  him;  and  as 
Nathan  was  too  young  to  put  in  an  objection 
when  he  was  christened,  I  can't  see  any  reason 
in  blaming  him  or  making  him  suffer  for  what 
he  can't  help.  The  Overtons  do  not  feel  as 
father  thinks  they  do." 

"But,  my  dear,  wait  a  while  an'  think  it  over. 
Marriage  without  a  father's  consent  is  such  an 
awful  thing,  Alva.  Nathan's  a  good  lookin' 
enough  young  man,  but  you  can't  always  go  by 
looks.  You  must  remember,  my  child,  that,  'It 
ain't  all  gold  that  glitters.'  "  Old  adages  were 
dear  to  Lucinda's  heart.  The  gainsaying,  by  later 
thought,  of  any  old  adage,  maxim,  or  proverb, 
served  only  to  endear  it  to  her,  and  to  increase 
her  efforts  in  the  defense  of  it  by  more  frequent 
quotation.  To  her  they  were  the  very  essence, 
the  cream  of  thought,  and  she  was  un- 
consciously proud  of  the  reflected  brilliancy 
they  lent  to  her  conversation. 

Alva  stood  facing  her  aunt.  She  leaned 
against  a  pillar  of  the  veranda.  She  was  wind- 
ing her  narrow  pink  hat  string  smoothly  around 
her  forefinger. 

"I  know  it,  aunt,  but  it  is  not  his  looks.  He 
is  good  looking,  though,  isn't  he,  Aunt  Lu- 


22  THE    BATTLE    INVISIBLE 

cinda?"  Alva  smiled,  and  over  her  face  sw^ept 
a  flash  of  rosy  warmth,  which  was  instantly  dis- 
pelled by  a  look  of  sadness. 

"I'm  sorry  to  disobey  father,  but  I  can  see 
no  other  way,  for  he  will  never  consent."  With 
an  assuring  smile,  Alva  stooped  and  kissed  her 
aunt's  forehead. 

"Have  no  fear.  Aunt  Lucinda,  I  have  thought 
of  it  a  great  deal,  and  I  feel  sure  that  I  am 
right.     Father  will  see  it  some  day." 

"You  hain't  decided  to  marry  him  soon,  have 
you  Alva  ?  Do  wait  a  year  or  two.  You  might 
make  it  all  right  with  your  father  if  you'd  wait 
a  while  an'  coax  him." 

"A  year  or  two !  and  keep  Nathan  waiting  all 
that  time,  just  for  father's  unreasonable  stub- 
bornness? No,  indeed.  I  will  not  coax  any 
one,  even  my  father,  to  allow  me  to  do  what  I 
know  to  be  right.  I  am  past  eighteen,  and  I  am 
going  to  be  Nathan  Overton's  wife,  notwith- 
standing that  he  bears  his  uncle's  name.  Now 
don't  you  worry  one  bit  about  it^  Aunt  Lucinda  ; 
leave  it  all  to  me,"  and  Alva,  again  kissing  her 
aunt  tenderly,  walked  away  down  the  path 
towards  the  gate.  The  pink  ribbons  on  her 
broad  straw  hat  hung  down  below  her  waist. 

"Dear  me,  how  over-conceited  that  girl  is! 
She  thinks  the  hull  world's  goin'  to  turn  round 


THE     BATTLE     INVISIBLE  23 

jest  to  suit  her.  I  wish  she  was  more  yieldin'. 
She's  jest  Hke  a  man ;  there  ain't  no  give  to  her. 
What  shall  I  say  to  Solomon  when  he  comes? 
Oh  dear,  oh  dear !" 

"What  be  you  'oh  dearing'  about  now,  Lu- 
cindy  Stone  ?  I  b'lieve  you'd  turn  the  sunshine 
down  any  day  to  find  a  dark  cloud,"  and  Salina 
Bodkins  walked  laboriously  up  the  steps  and 
seated  herself  in  Solomon's  easy  chair. 

"She  went,"  replied  Lucinda,  in  a  choking 
voice,  "an'  I  declare  I  dunno  what  to  do." 

"Well,  I  knew  she  would,"  said  Salina  coolly. 
"I  knew  the  minute  you  told  me  that  Solomon 
had  told  her  not  to  go,  that  she  would  go,  and 
what's  more,  she'll  marry  him,  too." 

"Yes,"  assented  Lucinda  with  a  sob,  "she  jes' 
tole  me  she  was  goin'  to ;  that's  what  she's  gone 
to  meet  him  for;  to  promise  to  marry  him.  She's 
kep'  him  waitin'  this  three  months,  an'  she  says 
she  won't  keep  him  waitin'  no  longer.  Today 
was  the  day  sot  for  her  to  tell  him." 

"Well,  your  brother  hain't  managed  Alva  as  I 
should  'a'  managed  her  if  she'd  'a'  been  my  girl. 
You  know,  Lucindy,  that  when  that  child  was 
a  leetle  mite  of  a  thing,  if  she  was  told  not  to 
go  into  the  garden,  into  the  garden  she  went." 

"Yes,  I  know  it,  S'Hny;  I  know  it  perfec'ly 
well.     When  she  wa'n't  quite  three  year  old,. 


24  THE    BATTLE    INVISIBLE 

Solomon  took  her  out  one  day  and  showed  her 
the  piny  buds,  and  told  her  she  mustn't  pick  off 
a  single  one — she  hadn't  happened  to  notice 
'em  afore — an'  if  she  did,  he'd  tie  her  up.  Of  all 
things  Alvarella  abominated  bein'  tied  up. 
Well,  would  anybody  believe  what  that  child 
did?  As  soon  as  her  father  had  gone  out  to 
his  work,  she  took  her  little  red  tin  cup,  that 
had  printed  on  it  in  gilt  letters,  'An  Obedient 
Child,'  and  picked  off  every  one  o'  the  piny  buds. 
When  Solomon  come  in  from  his  work  an'  sot 
down  to  rest,  Alva  walked  up  to  him  an'  poured 
the  buds  into  his  hat;  then  she  stood  up  an' 
looked  at  him,  right  in  the  eye.  She  had  the 
empty  cup  in  one  hand  and  the  rope  in  the 
other,  all  ready  to  be  tied  up.  Solomon  was 
that  beat,  he  never  said  a  word.  He  jes'  quietly 
hung  up  the  rope  and  rocked  her  to  sleep ;  then 
he  threw  the  buds  away  back  of  the  barn  where 
she  wouldn't  see  'em. 

"Now,  I  learned  a  lesson  from  that,  and  when 
the  pansies  bloomed,  I  tried  a  different  plan. 
I  took  her  out  and  showed  'em  to  her,  an'  told 
her  she  might  pick  'em  all  off  if  she  wanted  to, 
but  if  she  did,  they  would  die.  She  loved  the 
pansies,  an'  used  to  play  around  'em  and  talk 
to  *em  by  the  hour,  but  she  never  pulled  one 
off.     I  picked  a  few  one  day  to  put  on  the  tea- 


THE     BATTLE     INVISIBLE  25 

table  when  I  had  company,  an'  she  cried  herself 
'most  sick  about  it.  She  followed  me  around  a 
good  share  of  the  afternoon,  with  a  needle  an' 
thread,  a  beggin'  of  me  to  sew  'em  on  again  so 
they  wouldn't  die. 

"You  see,  S'liny,  men  don't  notice  these  little 
things  as  women  do.  Alva  was  always  jest  as 
sweet  an'  lovin'  as  any  child  could  be  when  she 
was  managed  right,  but  she  won't  be  druv,  an' 
never  would,  an'  it  does  seem  to  me  that  Solo- 
mon had  ort  to  know  it.  She  wouldn't  'a'  gone 
this  afternoon,  I  feel  sure,  if  her  father  hadn't 
threatened  to  turn  her  out  o'  doors  if  she  did. 
She's  got  her  trunk  all  packed  up,  S'liny,  all 
packed  up  an'  ready."  Lucinda  again  gave  way 
to  weeping,  interspersed  with  broken  expres- 
sions of  regret  for  past  sorrows,  and  dread  for 
those  which  seemed  lying  in  wait  to  pounce 
upon  her  in  the  near  future.  Something  about 
"This  vale  of  tears"  attracted  Salina's  attention. 

"Do  you  know,  Lucindy  Stone,  that  you're 
doing  all  you  can  to  make  this  world  a  vale  of 
tears  instead  of  trying  to  make  it  a  pleasant 
place  to  live  in?  An'  do  you  know  that  the 
reason  some  folks  never  can  see  anything  but 
tears  on  this  earth  is  because  their  own  eyes  are 
so  full  of  'em?  Most  o'  the  trouble  in  this 
world,  Lucindy,  is  homemade.     It's  wonderful 


26  THE     BATTLE    INVISIBLE 

how  the  rough  places  do  smooth  out  when  we 
take  our  hands  off  and  let  the  Lord  manage 
things.  You're  tryin'  to  do  His  work,  Lucindy 
Stone,  without  being  asked  to." 

Lucinda  dried  her  eyes  and  looked  at  her 
friend  thoughtfully.  "Mebbe  you're  right, 
S'liny.  I  guess  there  ain't  anything  more  I  can 
do." 

**Yes,"  said  Salina,  after  a  moment's  thought. 
"I  think  there  is  one  more  thing  you  could  do. 
Help  me  carry  Alva's  trunk  over  to  my  spare 
room,  so  if  they  have  trouble  to-night  she  can 
walk  right  over  to  my  house,  and  stay  there  till 
she's  married.  I  suppose  it  won't  be  long  after 
Nathan  finds  she's  turned  out.  You  see,  Lu- 
cindy, it  would  be  inconvenient  for  Alva  if  her 
father  should  take  a  notion  to  keep  her  clothes 
and—" 

"How  good  an'  thoughtful  you  be,  Saliny,  I 
never  would  'a'  thought  of  it.  It'll  look  a  sight 
better,  too,  for  her  to  be  over  with  you  than  to 
go  to  the  Overtons.  If  any  one  sees  her  to  your 
house,  they  might  think  she'd  jest  dropped  in. 
I  think  we'd  better  take  it  now,  Saliny.  'A  stitch 
in  time  saves  nine,' an' there  ain't  no  tellin'  what 
Solomon  '11  do  when  he  finds  out  she  went." 

When  her  father  returned,  Alva  was  seated 
on  the  veranda,  crocheting.     There  had  always 


THE     BATTLE     INVISIBIyE  27 

been  maintained  between  the  father  and 
daughter  a  vague  code  of  poHteness  which  they 
had  tacitly  framed  for  themselves,  and  to  which 
they  had  always  adhered  under  every  trying 
condition.  Solomon  walked  up  the  steps 
towards  his  daughter  hat  in  hand.  According 
to  her  custom,  Alva  rose  to  her  feet  at  his  ap- 
proach. Her  face  was  pale,  and  there  was  a 
determined  look  about  the  little  square  white 
chin,  but  there  was  no  trace  of  anger  or 
defiance.  Solomon  regarded  her  for  a  moment 
in  silence. 

"Did  you  disobey  me,  Alvarella?"  he  asked  at 
last,  in  a  low  voice  that  shook  with  suppressed 
emotion. 

The  young  girl  stood  with  one  hand  resting 
on  the  back  of  her  chair.  She  was  in  a  nervous 
tremor  from  head  to  foot,  but  she  replied  in  a 
calm  voice  and  without  removing  her  eyes  from 
her  father's  face. 

"Yes,  father,  I  did.     I  met  Nathan,  and — " 

"And  what?  What  fool  thing  did  you  dare 
to  do  ?  Ungrateful  wretch !  Child  of  a 
renegade!  Suckling  of  an  adulteress!"  He 
had  grasped  his  daughter  by  the  wrist,  and  his 
words  were  uttered  in  a  hiss. 

Alva  sprang  back,  and  with  a  painful  wrench 
freed  her  wrist.     Her  head  was  thrown  back. 


28  THE    BATTLE    INVISIBLE 

her  eyes  were  ablaze  with  anger,  and  not  a 
vestige  of  color  remained  in  her  face. 

"It's  a  lie,  father,  she's  not  that,  and  you  know 
it.  I've  heard  from  your  own  lips  that  she  was 
not.  Say  what  you  like  of  me,  but  I  will  not 
hear  you  say  such  things  of  mother.  A  shame 
on  you." 

Solomon's  arms  dropped  to  his  sides,  and  the 
two  stood  regarding  each  other  as  if  suddenly 
transfixed.  Something  in  her  face  reminded 
the  old  man  of  the  peony  buds,  and  he  saw 
before  him  a  little  girl  with  these  same  eyes, 
holding  in  one  hand  an  empty  tin  cup  and  in  the 
other  a  long,  slim  rope.  He  knew  now  that 
Alva  had  made  up  her  mind  to  take  the  conse- 
quences of  her  disobedience. 

"I  may  as  well  tell  you  all  now,  father,  while 
we  are  talking.  I  promised  this  afternoon  to 
marry  Nathan  Overton,  and  I  expect  to  be  his 
wife  within  a  week — with  your  consent  if  you 
will  give  it,  without  it  if  you  will  not.  If  you 
could  show  me  any  good  reasons — " 

Her  father  cut  her  sentence  short  as  if  he  had 
not  heard  a  word  of  what  she  was  saying. 

"I've  had  great  hopes  for  you,  Alvarella : 
you're  the  only  one  I've  got  to  care  about,  the 
only  one  I've  worked  for  all  these  long  years. 
It  was  for  you  I've  sacrificed  everything  to  save 


THE     BATTLE    INVISIBLE  29 

the  farm.  Your  mother  went  back  on  me,  an' 
now  you're  going  to  join  hands  with  the  enemy, 
and  mix  my  blood  up,  whether  I  will  or  no,  with 
a  family  that'd  kill  me  if  they  dared."  There 
was  a  moment  of  dead  silence.  "I  don't  know 
whether  I  killed  old  Nathan  Overton  or  not ; 
never  shall  know;  but  his  folks  all  think  I  did. 
I  hear  something  some  of  them  have  said  almost 
every  time  I  go  to  town.  I  think  I  did  right 
to  hit  him,  'cause  he  hit  me  first;  but  I  had  no 
more  intention  o'  killing  him  than  he  had  o' 
killing  me.  I've  felt  that  trouble  more  than  any 
one  knows  of.  It's  not  very  pleasant  to  think 
that  mebbe  you've  flung  a  man  head  first  into 
eternity  without  giving  him  a  minute  to  think 
it  over.  Seems  to  me,  Alvarella,  I've  had 
about  all  I  can  stand ;  an'  yet  you're  going  to 
lower  me  to  the  very  dust  by  joining  hands 
with  my  enemies."  Solomon  was  speaking 
calmly  now.  "You're  safe  in  insulting  me, 
because  you  know  I  wouldn't  strike  a  woman. 
If  you  do  it,  Alvarella, — I  want  to  give  you  fair 
warning, — if  you  marry  that  man,  you're  no 
longer  my  daughter,  and  I  don't  want  you  to 
ever  come  near  me  whether  I'm  sick  or  well,  and 
I  forbid  you  to  call  me  father,  or  to  show  your- 
self at  my  funeral  when  I'm  dead.  I  shall  be 
Solomon  Stone  to  you  from  your  marriage  day 


30  THE    BATTLE    INVISIBLE 

on,  as  T  am  to  the  rest  of  the  world.  Are  you 
going  to  do  it?" 

Alva's  voice  was  low  but  firm. 

"I  am." 

"Then  you  can  go."  She  turned  as  if  to  go 
into  the  house.  He  put  his  hands  on  her 
shoulders  and  turned  her  about  facing  the  road. 

"Go  out  there.  Out  into  the  street.  Out  o' 
my  sight."  He  stretched  one  long  shaking 
arm  towards  the  road. 

Alva  slowly  picked  up  her  hat  that  lay  on  the 
floor  and  put  it  on.  She  slowly  tied  the  strings 
under  her  chin,  carefully  spreading  out  the  bow 
with  her  trembling  fingers,  keeping,  the  while, 
her  eyes  on  those  of  her  father.  Every  trace  of 
anger  and  resentment  had  suddenly  fled  from 
both  faces,  leaving  them  pale  and  drawn. 

"Do  you — meant  it — father?  Do  you — mean 
to — turn  me  out?"     Alva  spoke  with  difficulty. 

"Yes,  go,  Alva,  go  quick,"  and  he  turned  his 
back  to  her.  Her  hand  touched  his  arm  with  a 
lingering  sweep,  and  she  walked  with  slow, 
uneven  steps  towards  the  gate.  She  had  a  faint 
hope  that  he  would  call  her  back.  She  glanced 
back  wistfully  over  her  shoulder,  half  expecting 
to  see  some  sign,  but  he  had  gone  into  the 
house,  so  Alva  Stone  closed  her  father's  gate 
with  a  touch  that  was  both  a  caress  and  a  fare- 
well, "and  walked  away. 


THE    BATTIvE     INVISIBLE  31 

Salina  Bodkins  stood  at  her  own  gate.  She 
had  been  standing  there  ever  since  she  saw 
Soloman  Stone  drive  home. 

"Come  here,  Alva,  you're  to  come  in  and  stay 
with  me.  I  know  what's  happened,  and  you're 
to  stay  right  here  with  me  till  you're  married. 
Your  Aunt  Lucindy  said  so.  Your  trunk's  up 
stairs,  an'  your  room's  all  ready." 

At  the  mention  of  her  Aunt  Lucinda,  tears 
flowed  down  Alva's  cheeks,  but  not  a  muscle  of 
her  face  moved. 

"How  good  you  are,  Aunt  Salina !  And  poor 
Aunt  Lucinda,  I  didn't  get  to  speak  to  her.  She 
don't  even  know  I'm  gone.  She's  getting 
supper."  Salina  laid  her  arm  about  Alva's 
shoulders,  and  they  walked  into  the  house. 

Three  days  later,  at  four  o'clock  in  the  after- 
noon, Nathan  Overton  and  Alva  Stone  drove 
away  from  Salina  Bodkin's  gate.  Lucinda  and 
SaHna  stood  side  by  side  and  watched  the  bright 
new  buggy  as  far  as  they  could  see  it.  How 
pretty  Alva  looked  in  her  pale  blue  cashmere 
and  white  ribbons !  She  turned  occasionally 
and  waved  her  hand  back  at  them,  smiling. 

"Now  you  stop  cryin',  Lucindy  Stone.  You'll 
make  yourself  sick.  Alva  knows  what  she's 
about." 

"Yes,   I  mus'   stop.   Saliny,   or  I  might  git 


32  THE    BATTLE    INVISIBLE 

infermation  in  the  eyes.  Louisa  hed  it  after 
Solomon  took  the  baby  away  from  her.  I've 
hed  'most  everything  that  anybody's  ever  hed, 
but  if  I  should  git  infermation,  I  have  a  feehn' 
that  I  shouldn't  never  git  over  it.  But  I  dunno 
as  it'd  make  much  dift'rence,  I  guess  I  shouldn't 
be  missed.  Alva's  gone,  an'  she'll  f'git  all  about 
me  in  a  little  while,  an'  if  I  shouldn't  never  git  to 
see  her  again  in  this  world,  Saliny,  tell  her — " 
Lucinda  was  unable  to  finish  her  farewell  mes- 
sage.    She  was  sobbing  violently. 

"Oh,  nonsense !  I  feel  as  if  I  could  shake 
you,  Lucindy  Stone.  'Never  git  to  see  her 
again !'  Lucindy,  open  your  eyes  if  you  can,  and 
look  over  there  across  the  road."  Lucinda 
looked  as  well  as  she  could  through  her  swollen 
lids. 

"Do  you  see  that  red  house  over  there,  right 
square  in  front  of  your  face  ?" 

"Why  of  course  I  do,  I  ain't  quite  blind.  Any- 
body c'd  see  it  that's  got  eyes.  But  what  o' 
that?"     Lucinda  felt  a  little  oflfended. 

"Well  then,  I  guess  you  can  see  Alva  when- 
ever you  take  the  trouble  to  look  out  o'  your 
front  winders." 

"Why,  what  do  you  mean,  S'liny?  Alva  ain't 
goin'  to — " 

"Yes,    she   is.     Nathan's   bought   the   farm. 


THE    BATTLE     INVISIBLE  33 

Alva  told  me  to  tell  you  'bout  it  after  they  were 
gone.  Nathan  paid  cash  for  it,  too,  four  thou- 
sand dollars.  The  Saxes  are  going  to  move  into 
town  next  week,  and  Nathan  and  his  wife  are 
going  to  set  up  housekeeping  right  in  front  of 
your  face  'n'  eyes."  Lucinda  could  hardly 
believe  her  ears,  at  first;  she  gazed  at  Salina, 
speechless. 

"They  bought  it?"  she  asked  at  last. 

"Yes." 

"An'  they're  goin'  to  live  right  over  there 
acrost  the  road,  in  the  Saxe  house?"  Lucinda 
pointed  towards  the  house,  but  she  kept  her 
eyes  on  Salina's  face. 

"Yes." 

"How  glad  I  be,  Saliny,  for  I  can  slip  in  an 
'tend  to  her  if  she's  sick  er  anything,  an'  when 
Solomon's  gone  out  to  his  work,  I  can  jes  run 
over  and  help  her  a  little  bit  now  an'  then  about 
her  washin'.  Alva,  she  don't  git  along  very  well 
with  washin' ;  she  always  rubs  blisters  on  her 
fingers  the  fus  thing.  'Every  dark  cloud  has  a 
silver  linin',  don't  it,  Sahny?"  Lucinda's  tear- 
stained  face  was  wreathed  in  smiles. 

"Oh,  Nathan  won't  let  her  wash,  you  can  be 
sure  of  that.  He'll  most  likely  hire  old  Polly 
Downs  to  do  it  for  her;  she  washes  for  his 
mother."     Lucinda  looked  disappointed.     "Be- 


34  THE    BATTLE    INVISIBLE 

sides/'  continued  Salina,  "you're  getting  most 
too  far  along  in  years  to  wash,  Lucindy." 

"Oh,  I  don't  mind  it  the  least  bit,  Saliny,  I've 
alius  been  use'  to  it,  an'  I'd  a  good  deal  ruther 
'Wear  out  than  rust  out.'  " 

"So  would  I,  Lucindy,  ever  so  much ;  but  I 
guess  there's  no  danger  of — Why,  ain't  that 
Solomon  coming  down  the  road  on  that  grey 
horse?" 

"Yes,  'tis  Solomon,  sure  enough.  I  mus'  go 
right  to  gittin'  supper.  He's  been  to  town  to 
see  about  gettin'  the  mortgage  distended  to 
three  year  more.  I  hope  he's  been  able  to  git 
it  done.  I'm  sure  I  dunno  what  Solomon'd  do 
if  they  should  close  up  on  him  now  right  on  the 
heels  of  Alva  gittin'  married.  (You  know, 
S'liny,  trouble  never  comes  singlehanded.) 
Lawyer  Barnes  is  a  good  friend  o'  Solomon's 
an'  he's  doin'  all  he  can  to  git  a  three-year 
distention.  He  was  Solomon's  lawyer,  ye 
know,  when  he  had  that  trouble  (Lucinda  had 
lowered  her  voice  to  a  whisper),  an'  I  tell  you, 
S'liny,  'A  friend  in  need  is  a  friend  indeed.'  " 

Four  years  had  gone  by  since  Nathan  Over- 
ton had  moved  with  his  bride  into  the  Saxe 
house.  But  for  one  drawback,  they  had  been 
four    happy,    prosperous    years.     Nathan    had 


THE    BATTLrE    INVISIBI^E  35 

hoped  that,  Hving  so  near  together,  the  hard 
feeHng  that  existed  between  his  wife  and  her 
father  would  gradually  melt  away  under  the 
softening  influence  of  time.  To  the  intense 
disappointment  of  near  relatives  and  friends, 
the  passing  years  wrought  no  change  between 
Solomon  Stone  and  his  daughter.  They  often 
passed  one  another  in  the  road  as  if  neither 
knew  of  the  other's  existence. 

It  was  the  middle  of  April.  It  had  rained 
intermittently  for  ten  days.  The  ground  was 
sodden;  rivulets  were  running  here  and  there, 
and  the  permanent  streams  had  overflowed 
their  banks  and  inundated  the  low  lands.  Rain- 
drops hung  trembling  on  the  swollen  buds  of 
the  apple  trees,  and  dropped  lazily  down  upon 
the  head  of  Solomon  Stone  as  he  hammered 
away  at  the  stakes  of  his  tent  in  the  orchard 
close  to  the  road.  Salina  and  Mary  Bodkins 
stood  on  the  porch  watching  him  as  he  worked 
in  the  rain. 

"What  in  the  world  do  you  s'pose  he's 
workin'  for  in  all  this  rain,  S'liny?"  Salina  did 
not  reply  at  once,  and  when  her  thoughts  did 
get  to  it,  Mary  had  forgotten  the  question. 

"I  don't  want  to  say  just  yet,  Mary." 

"Say  what?" 

"Why,  what  you  just  asked  me.     I've  made 


36  THE    BATTLE    INVISIBLE 

up  my  mind,  though,  what  it  means,  and  I'm 
goin'  over  to  find  out."  SaHna  opened  her 
umbrella  with  that  careful,  dainty  way  a  few 
women  have,  gathered  her  clean  starched  dress 
well  up  above  the  hem  of  her  red  petticoat,  and 
walked  down  the  path  beside  the  gooseberry 
bushs  till  she  could  see  the  kitchen  window  of 
the  Stone  house.  The  window  was  open,  and 
the  short  calico  curtain  was  waving  outside, 
flapping  like  a  wet  sail. 

"Something  unusual  is  up,  or  Lucindy 
wouldn't  let  that  curtain  fly  out  in  the  rain  like 
that,"  was  Salina's  mental  verdict,  as  she 
stepped  high  through  the  wet  grass. 

''Lucindy,  Lucindy  Stone !"  The  dripping 
curtain  was  pulled  in,  and  the  upper  half  of 
Lucindy's  person  was  thrust  out. 

"O,  S'liny,"  she  gasped,  "do  come  over  here 
quick.  Somethin'  awful's  happened.  The 
mortgage  has  closed  up  on  us,  an'  Solomon 
declares  he'll  never  sleep  another  night  in  this 
house.  We're  a-movin'.  We're  goin'  to  move 
right  out  to-day."  Lucinda's  voice  was  broken 
and  plaintive.  Salina  noticed  how  pale  she 
was,  and  how  white  her  hair  looked,  framed  in 
by  the  dark  casing  and  the  wet,  weather- 
beaten  clapboards. 

"But  you  don't  have  to,  Lucindy.  I  wouldn't 
move  in  the  rain  to  please  anybody." 


THE    BATTI^E    INVISIBIyE  37 

"No,  we've  got  till  August,  but  Solomon,  he 
won't  stay  in  this  house  another  night,  he  says, 
and  you  know,  S'liny,  when  Solomon  says  a 
thing,  he's  set  on  it." 

"Well,  I'd  let  him  be  set  on  it.  I'd  let  him 
go  out  an'  set  on  the  fence,  if  he  wanted  to,  if 
I  was  in  your  place,  Lucindy  Stone,  and  I 
wouldn't  stir  one  step  out  o'  that  house  till  it 
stops  raining  and  dries  up." 

"But,  S'liny,  he's  goin'  to  lock  the  house  up 
an'  take  the  key  down  to  Squire  Simmons  this 
very  night,  so  he  says." 

"Well,  then,  Lucindy,  you  come  over  and 
stay  with  me  till  the  weather  clears  up.  'Twon't 
do  for  you  to  move  into  that  tent;  I  see  that's 
what  you're  planning  to  do." 

"Yes,  that's  where  we're  goin'.  Solomon 
says  it'll  be  reel  comf'table.  I'll  come  over 
bimeby,  S'liny,  an'  git  a  cup  o'  tea.  I  feel  purt' 
nigh  tuckered  out.  We've  got  all  the  things 
packed  up  now  that  we  can't  use  in  the  tent, 
an'  Lawyer  Barnes  is  goin'  to  store  'em  for  us 
in  his  new  granary.  You  see,  S'liny,  th' 
orchard,  an'  that's  ten  acres,  wa'n't  in  the  mort- 
gage, an'  jest  as  soon  as  Solomon  can  sell  the 
sheep  an'  horses,  he's  goin'  to  build  a  cottage 
right  out  there  under  the  apple  trees  where  the 
tent  is." 


38  THE    BATTLE    INVISIBL,E 

"Well,  it's  a  shame  for  a  woman  o'  your  age 
to  have  to  move  into  a  tent,  such  weather  as 
this,  and  you  complaining  every  little  damp 
spell  with  the  rheumatism,  too.  You'd  better 
make  up  your  mind  to  stay  with  me  till  the 
house  is  built.  It'd  more  than  likely  save  you  a 
spell  o'  sickness." 

"No,  I  feel  it  my  duty  to  stay  with  Solomon, 
S'liny;  you  see  he'd  feel  kind  o'  forsook  like  all 
alone  in  a  wet  tent." 

Alva  was  greatly  disturbed  when  she  found 
that  her  father  and  her  Aunt  Lucinda  were 
going  to  move  out  of  their  comfortable  home 
into  a  tent.  She  tried  her  best  to  persuade  her 
aunt  to  stay  with  Salina,  but  for  once  in  her 
life  Lucinda  was  inflexible. 

Solomon  laid  a  few  boards  down  here  and 
there  in  the  tent;  between  these  was  fresh  wet 
grass.  Some  strips  of  rag  carpet  were  hung  up 
between  the  two  beds,  and  in  front  of  Lucinda's 
bed  Solomon  had  spread  down  an  old  buflfalo 
robe. 

Rain  fell  with  lazy  persistency  during  the 
entire  night.  Solomon  kept  up  a  good  fire  in 
the  cook  stove,  and  the  tent,  consequently,  full 
of  steam  from  the  drying  canvas.  A  little 
rivulet  had  broken  through  and  was  running 


THE     BATTLE    INVISIBI^E  39 

across  the  floor  between  the  beds.  Solomon 
lay  watching  it  after  he  woke  in  the  morning. 

"Lucinda,  you're  coughing.  Have  you  taken 
cold?"  She  made  an  effort  to  reply,  but  could 
scarcely  raise  her  voice  above  a  whisper. 

"No,  I  guess  not,  Solomon,"  she  managed 
to  squeak  out,  "but  I'm  terrible  hot,  an'  my 
hair's  jes'  wringin'  wet.  Seems  to  me  you've 
got  a  terrible  fire,  Solomon." 

Without  replying,  Solomon  dressed  and  went 
to  his  sister's  bed.  Before  he  touched  her  he 
saw  that  she  was  feverish.  He  laid  his  hand  on 
her  forehead.  "You're  sick,  Lucinda.  I'm 
afraid  it's  sleeping  in  this  wet  tent.  I  guess  I'd 
'a'  done  better  to  have  left  you  in  the  house  till 
it  cleared  up.  I'll  ride  to  town  and  get  the 
doctor  to  come  over  and  see  what  ails  you 
before  you  get  any  worse." 

Lucinda  did  her  best  to  expostulate  with 
him,  but  her  voice  failed  her.  In  less  than  five 
minutes  she  heard  his  horse  beating  the  soft 
mud  in  a  gallop  up  the  road  towards  the  village. 

"Lucindy,  Lucindy  Stone."  Salina  pushed 
back  the  wet  curtain,  and  stood  in  the  tent  door. 
She  hstened  a  moment. 

"Air  you  alone,  Lucindy?"  Salina  heard 
something,  mingled  with  the  patter  of  the  rain. 


40  THE    BATTLE    INVISIBLE 

that  sounded  like  the  first  attempt  of  a  young 
rooster  to  crow.  Lucinda  was  making  the 
effort  of  her  hfe  to  speak  in  her  natural  voice. 

"Jest  exactly  as  I  expected,  Lucindy  Stone ; 
you're  sick,  an'  no  wonder."  Salina  stood 
beside  the  bed  with  her  hands  on  her  hips.  She 
turned  suddenly,  after  a  moment's  silent 
thought,  and  went  to  the  tent  door.  She  put  a 
plump  hand  on  each  side  of  her  mouth  and 
called:  "Nathan,  Nathan!"  The  young  man 
appeared  in  his  doorway.  Salina  made  a 
sweeping  inward  motion  with  her  arm  that  said 
distinctly:     "Come  over  here  at  once." 

"Nathan,  Lucindy's  sick.  She's  got  a  high 
fever,  and  her  voice  is  like  the  croak  of  an  old 
crow.  Can  you  carry  her  over  to  my  house?" 
Lucinda  opened  her  lips  to  protest,  but  it  was 
of  no  use;  she  was  helpless. 

"Why,  certainly  I  can,  what's  to  hinder? 
Roll  her  up  in  the  blankets,  Mrs.  Bodkins,  and 
you  walk  along  and  hold  your  umbrella  over 
her.  It  isn't  raining  just  now,  but  water  is 
dropping  from  the  trees." 

Solomon  stood  looking  at  the  empty  bed 
when  Salina  again  appeared  at  the  tent  door. 

"I  thought  'twas  best,  Mr.  Stone,"  she  was 
saying ;  "this  is  no  place  for  a  woman  o'  her  age 
even  if  she  was  well,  which  she's  far  from.    You 


THE     BATTLE    INVISIBLE  41 

know  as  well  as  I  do,  Mr.  Stone,  that  your 
sister  has  been  in  poor  health,  more  or  less,  for 
two  year,  an'  it'll  kill  her  to  live  in  this  wet  tent. 
There's  no  two  ways  about  it." 

Salina  stopped  for  want  of  breath.  She  had 
been  talking  with  only  a  few  slight  pauses  for 
five  minutes.  She  was  a  little  nervous,  for  this 
was  the  longest  conversation  she  had  ever 
attempted  with  her  next  door  neighbor,  in  all 
the  fifteen  years  that  she  had  lived  in  the 
shadow  of  his  house. 

Solomon  had  not  yet  spoken.  He  was  look- 
ing past  his  visitor  away  into  the  distance. 
Salina  flushed  and  bit  her  lips  in  vexation.  She 
began  to  wonder,  when  she  saw  the  far  away 
look  in  his  cold,  grey  eyes,  if  he  had  any  inten- 
tion of  replying  to  her  at  all.  When  he  did 
finally  turn  his  eyes  upon  her  own,  she  felt  as  if 
touched  by  an  electric  battery.  His  eyes 
seemed  to  breathe  and  grow  warm  as  they 
calmly  gazed  into  hers.  She  involuntarily  took 
a  step  backward,  and  rested  her  hand  on  the 
back  of  a  chair.  In  this  short  moment  of  soul 
communion,  the  thought  came  to  Salina  like  a 
flash  of  light,  that  Solomon  Stone  was  mis- 
understood. 

"I  presume  you're  right,  Mrs.  Bodkins.  This 
is  no  place  for  a  woman.     I  didn't  think  about 


42  THE    BATTLE    INVISIBLE 

her  age.  In  fact,  I  didn't  know  till  just  now, 
that  she'd  not  been  well  for  two  years.  She 
never  mentioned  it  to  me." 

Salina  felt  encouraged.  Her  face  brightened. 
She  had  made  him  speak. 

"Won't  you  come  over  to  my  house,  too,  Mr. 
Stone?  Just  for  a  few  days,  till  this  wet 
weather's  over.  I've  got  plenty  o'  room.  This 
ain't  a  fit  place  for  man  or  beast.  Why,  it's 
soakin'  wet,  Mr.  Stone.  You  might  get  some 
terrible  sickness  like — like  typhoid  fever,  or  th' 
ager,  or — the  hives." 

"No,  thank  you,  Mrs.  Bodkins.  This  is 
plenty  good  enough  or  me.  If  you'll  let 
Lucinda  stay  with  you  a  few  days,  I'll  pay  you 
well  for  it." 

"Pay  me !  Indeed  you  will  not,"  said  Salina, 
bristling.  She  fairly  swelled  with  indignation. 
"I'm  no  better  'n  I  ought  to  be,  Mr.  Stone,  but 
I'm  not  quite  mean  enough  to  take  pay  for 
letting  a  friend  stay  in  my  house  a  few  days. 
I  didn't  suppose  you'd  come  when  I  asked  ye, 
because  you'  re  so  stubborn  and  contrary;  but 
if  you  change  your  mind,  you're  perfectly 
welcome  any  minute."  And  with  this  she 
walked  away.  She  rather  regretted,  a  moment 
later,  that  she  had  been  so  frank,  "Still,"  she 


THE    BATTLE    INVISIBIvE  43 

thought  to  herself,  "Maybe  he  don't  know  he's 
contrary,  and  it  may  set  him  to  thinking." 

It  did  set  him  to  thinking.  No  woman  had 
ever  before  dared  to  criticize  him  to  his  face. 
He  sat  in  deep  thought  for  some  time.  Then 
he  spoke  low  to  himself. 

"S'pose  that's  what  they  all  think.  Stubborn ! 
Contrary !    Uh  !    Well,  it's  all  the  same  to  me." 

The  curtain  door  of  the  tent  was  pushed 
aside,  and  Alverella  stood  before  her  father. 
She  had  a  tired  look,  and  her  face  and  hair  were 
wet  with  rain.  For  a  moment  neither  spoke. 
He  secretly  admired  her  for  daring  to  come. 

"Solomon  Stone,  Nathan  and  I  invite  you  to 
stay  with  us  until  you  get  your  house  built. 
You  will  be  perfectly  welcome.  Will  you 
come?"  Alva's  voice  was  as  always  low  and 
sweet.     The  old  man  started  as  if  stung. 

"How  dare  you  ask  me  this,  Alva?" 

"How  dare  I?"  she  repeated  quickly,  as  she 
gazed  unflinchingly  into  his  stern  face.  "I 
dare,  because  your  blood  is  in  me."  She  waited 
a  moment  for  him  to  speak,  but  he  remained 
silent. 

"When  you  left  mother  at  grandfather's 
twenty  years  ago,  you  gave  her  two  hundred 
dollars  in  money.    (Solomon  listened  intently.) 


44  THE    BATTLE    INVISIBLE 

She  has  never  used  a  cent  of  it.  It  has  been 
upon  interest  all  these  years.  She  says  it  is  not 
hers,  but  yours.  She  feels  that  she  has  no  right 
to  it.  Will  you  take  it?  She  does  not  need 
it.     She  wished  me  to  ask  you  this." 

"No,  I  will  not.  Tell  her  to  make  use  of  it, 
for  it  is  hers." 

"Will  you  not  take  half  of  it,  fath — Solomon 
Stone?  It  is  mother's  wish,  and  you  could 
make  good  use  of  it  just  now ;  you  could  build 
at  once." 

"No,  I  will  not."  Alva  took  a  step  backward 
when  the  last  "no"  was  spoken,  and  the  curtain 
dropped  between  them. 

Solomon  tied  the  door  open  and  sat  gazing 
out  into  a  grey,  chilly  fog  that  was  fast  closing 
in  about  the  tent.     He  was  deep  in  thought. 

Solomon  knew  that  Alva  had  no  hope  that  he 
would  take  the  money.  He  could  see  it  in  her 
face.  He  remembered  that  this  was  the  second 
time  Louisa  had  offered  him  that  money.  Both 
times  he  was  in  trouble.  When  he  was  arrested 
for  murder,  she  visited  him  in  prison  and 
begged  him  to  take  it  for  defense.  She  insisted 
that  it  belonged  to  him ;  that  she  had  forfeited 
all  right  to  it.  He  told  her  that  she  certainly 
had,  in  a  way,  but  that  if  he  gave  it  to  her,  it 


THE     BATTLE    INVISIBLE  45 

was  hers.  She  left  him  that  day  feeHng  more 
than  ever  heart-broken. 

"What  did  he  say?  Oh,  what  did  he  say, 
Alva?  Did  he  say  he  would  take  it?  Could 
you  coax  him  to  take  it?" 

"He  said  just  what  I  would  have  said  in  his 
place,  mother,  *no'."  Alva  pushed  the  heavy 
hair  back  from  her  forehead  with  a  weary 
motion.  "I  knew  before  I  went  over  there  that 
he  would  refuse  the  money  and  all  offers  of 
assistance." 

"Poor  Solomon !  It's  all  my  fault  that  you're 
so  hard  and  unhappy.  It's  my  fault  that  you're 
alone  in  that  wet  tent  to-day,"  and  gentle 
Louisa  Stone,  whose  fault  was  her  weakness, 
sat  gazing  with  tearful  eyes  over  towards  the 
white  tent  under  the  apple  tree.  "I  wish  he 
would  go  in  out  of  the  wet.  I  can  hardly  see 
him  through  the  fog." 

"Don't  blame  yourself  so  much,  mother  dear, 
it  isn't  all  your  fault.  Father's  trouble  made 
a  great  difference  with  him." 

"You  wouldn't  believe,  Alva,  what  a  good- 
natured  man  he  used  to  be,  and  he  was  good 
company  too,"  declared  Louisa,  between  sobs; 
"he  used  to  sit  and  tell  me  stories  by  the  hour ; 
you  know  I  was  young  then,  and  so  fond  of  life 
and  excitement." 


46  THE    BATTLE    INVISIBLE 

"Yes,  mother,  a  seventeen  year  old  wife  is 
young." 

Three  days  and  nights  Solomon  lived  alone 
in  his  wet  tent;  then  the  rain  ceased  and  the 
sun  shone  forth  with  welcome  warmth. 

Lucinda  had  rheumatic  fever,  the  doctor  said, 
and  the  first  of  June  found  her  still  in  bed. 

Solomon  had  just  come  in  from  hoeing  his 
little  patch  of  corn.  He  hung  up  his  hoe  in  a 
tree  beside  the  tent,  and  pushed  aside  the  cur- 
tain door.  A  child  two  years  old  stood  at  his 
table,  eating.  She  had  a  piece  of  cold  meat  in 
one  hand  and  in  the  other  a  cooky  which  she 
had  taken  from  his  table.  Her  head  was 
covered  with  a  confused  mass  of  silky,  brown 
curls  that  clung  in  little  rings  to  her  soft,  white 
neck.  The  two  gazed  at  one  another  for  a 
moment  in  silence.  The  child  was  the  first  to 
speak. 

"Baby — eat,"  said  the  Httle  one,  looking 
down  at  her  cooky  from  which  one  bite  had 
been  taken. 

"Yes,  so  I  see.  What  do  you  want  here?" 
asked  the  astonished  man,  in  a  stern  voice. 

"Want — here,"  repeated  the  child,  with  a 
little  quiver  about  her  under  lip. 

"You're  going  to  cry,  are  you  ?  You'd  better 
go  home  to  your  mother."     Solomon's  voice 


THE    BATTIvB    INVISIBLE  47 

softened  a  little,  unconsciously,  when  he  saw 
two  little  tears  that  were  not  heavy  enough  to 
roll  down,  lying  just  under  the  little  one's  eyes. 
"What's  the  matter  with  ye,  eh?" 

"Gampa — scol' — baby." 

"Who  said  I  was  your  grandpa?  I'm  not 
your  grandpa." 

"Not — gampa,"  echoed  the  baby,  with  a 
stifled  sob.  Solomon  pulled  the  door  curtain 
aside  and  motioned  her  out. 

"Come,  you  run  home  now."  She  laid  her 
cooky  and  piece  of  meat  on  the  clean  plate 
Solomon  had  set  out  for  himself,  and  started 
for  the  door,  repeating  his  last  words,  "Home — 
now.     Home — now." 

He  watched  her  until  she  had  crossed  the 
road,  and  crawled  under  the  gate  into  her  own 
yard. 

"Guess  she  won't  come  over  here  again,  the 
brat.  I  shall  have  to  tie  the  door  shut  after 
this  when  I  go  out."  He  smiled  nevertheless, 
when  he  sat  down  to  his  dinner  and  saw  the 
prints  of  her  fingers  around  the  edge  of  his 
plate,  and  that  she  had  taken  a  bite  out  of  each 
cooky  on  the  table. 

The  following  day,  while  Solomon  was  eating 
his  dinner  of  bread  and  milk,  cold  meat  and 
cheese,  two  httle  dimpled  hands  pulled  the  door 


48  THE    BATTLE    INVISIBLE 

curtain  apart,  and  a  fair  baby  face  was  pressed 
in  at  the  opening. 

''Ope — door.  Baby — min!"  demanded  the 
little  visitor,  pausing  after  each  word  and  giving 
to  each  the  downward  inflection.  "Ope — door. 
Baby — min"  she  repeated. 

Solomon  went  on  eating,  and  pretended  not 
to  see  her.  She  gazed  at  him  a  full  minute 
without  moving  or  speaking ;  then  she  dropped 
flat  upon  the  ground  and  crawled  in  under  the 
canvas.  She  walked  slowly  towards  the  table 
as  if  not  quite  sure  of  a  welcome,  until  the  old 
man  turned  suddenly  and  looked  at  her  with  a 
frown.  She  stopped  short  and  looked  down  at 
her  own  fingers,  with  which  she  began  twisting 
and  picking  at  the  front  of  her  apron. 

"What  did  you  come  for?"  demanded  Solo- 
mon in  a  stern  voice. 

"Come — for,"  repeated  the  baby,  her  lips 
quivering,  as  she  raised  her  eyes,  brimful  of 
tears,  to  her  grandfather's  face. 

"There,  there!  Don't  cry,"  admonished  the 
old  man,  his  face  softening;  and  spreading  a 
piece  of  bread  he  sprinkled  sugar  over  it  and 
handed  it  to  her.  She  began  eating  it  with 
avidity,  the  while  keeping  her  tearful  eyes  fixed 
on  his  face. 


THE     BATTLE    INVISIBLE  49 

"You'll  choke  yourself;  you  mustn't  take 
such  big  bites."  She  tried  her  best  to  reply  by 
saying  "big  bites,"  but  her  mouth  was  too  full. 

"Gampa — up — up.  Take — baby."  She  ap- 
proached the  old  man,  after  she  had  crowded 
the  last  bit  of  bread  into  her  mouth,  stepped 
upon  the  rounds  of  his  chair,  and  made  an  effort 
to  climb  into  his  lap.  She  balanced  for  a 
moment  over  his  knee,  struggling  desperately; 
then  she  settled  back  upon  her  feet,  and  gazed 
into  his  face  in  wondering  surprise. 

"No,  I  can't  take  ye.  I  must  go  to  work. 
You  must  go  home  now." 

"Home — now."  She  repeated,  with  her 
clear  eyes  fixed  on  his. 

"You're  a  funny  baby.  You  can't  talk 
much." 

"Talk — much,"  said  the  little  one,  with  a 
flattered  expression. 

The  man  gazed  into  the  child's  eyes  for  a 
few  moments  without  speaking;  then  as  if  com- 
muning with  his  own  soul,  he  said,  in  a  subdued 
voice:  "She's  her  mother's  child  over  and 
over,  but  she  has  Louisa's  eyes." 

"Weza — eyes,"  echoed  the  child,  showing  her 
tiny  white  teeth  in  a  smile.  Solomon  laughed 
aloud. 


50  THE    BATTLE    INVISIBLE 

"You  parrot !"  he  exclaimed,  as  he  caught  the 
baby  up  in  his  arms,  and  even  more  quickly 
set  her  down. 

"There,  you  run  home  now,"  he  said,  a  little 
sternly. 

"Home — now,"  echoed  the  baby,  starting 
straight  for  the  door.  Solomon  drew  aside  the 
curtain,  and  stood  watching  her  until  he  saw 
her  crawl  on  hands  and  knees  up  the  doorsteps 
of  her  own  home,  and  go  in  at  the  open  door. 

He  sat  thinking  of  the  baby  and  how  much 
she  resembled  Alva;  all  but  her  eyes, — they 
were  like  Louisa's — just  as  Louisa's  had  looked 
the  first  time  he  saw  her, — at  the  Oakland 
Grove  picnic.  Louisa  was  queen  of  flowers  that 
day;  she  wore  a  white  dress  and  a  crown  of 
wild  roses.  She  got  a  rose  thorn  in  one  of  her 
fingers  and  the  young  men  gathered  around 
her,  all  offering  to  pick  it  out  for  her.  Solomon 
was  the  farthest  away  of  all,  but  she  looked 
right  past  the  rest  and  offered  her  hand  to  him. 
"Mr.  Stone,  will  you  try  it?"  said  she.  He 
never  forgot  the  look  in  her  eyes.  He  told  her 
afterwards  it  was  that  one  glance  that  sealed 
his  fate. 

As  he  gazed  into  the  baby's  eyes,  when  she 
was  silently  pleading  to  be  taken  up,  the  old 


THE    BATTLE    INVISIBLE  51 

spell  stole  over  him,  as  a  dear  memory  is  some- 
times reawakened  by  the  odor  of  a  flower,  or  a 
tone  of  forgotten  music. 

"Well,  this  is  not  hoeing  down  weeds,"  said 
Solomon  to  himself,  as,  with  a  few  quick  blinks 
of  his  eyelids,  he  shouldered  his  hoe,  and 
walked  away  to  his  little  patch  of  corn. 

All  day  and  for  days  after,  a  girl  in  a  white 
dress  and  a  crown  of  wild  roses,  followed  him 
everywhere.  She  moved  before  him  with  the 
persistence  of  a  shadow,  as  he  stepped  forward 
from  hill  to  hill  of  the  tender,  waving  corn, 
always  holding  out  to  him  one  little  hand. 
"Mr.  Stone,  will  you  try  it?"  At  times  she  came 
so  near  that  he  would  stop  suddenly  lest  he 
strike  the  skirt  of  her  dress  with  the  hoe. 

"Well,  I  guess  I'm  getting  to  be  a  blamed 
fool,"  he  said  aloud,  pressing  the  palm  of  his 
hand  to  his  hot  forehead ;  then,  as  if  to  shut  out 
the  vision,  he  went  on  hoeing  with  all  his  might. 

"I  was  a  fool  to  look  at  her  the  other  day, 
when  I  met  her  in  the  road,"  he  mumbled. 
"Everybody  says  she's  a  good  woman;  leads  a 
good,  useful  life ;  but  I  say  she  did  wrong  once, 
and  nobody  can  convince  me — "  "Did  you 
ever  do  anything  wrong,  Solomon  Stone  ?"  and 
a  low  voice  from,  he  knew  not  where,  spoke  to 


52  THE    BATTLE    INVISIBLE 

his  soul.  He  turned  and  looked  about  him ; 
there  was  no  one  near, 

"And  I  can  never  forgive  her  for  that,"  he 
continued,  "I  can  never  forgive — " 

"Our  debts  as  we  forgive  our  debtors." 

Once  more  he  straightened  up  and  looked 
about  him.  The  hot  sweat  on  his  forehead 
seemed  suddenly  cold.  A  ground  squirrel 
darted  past  him  and  whipped  into  a  hole  three 
hills  away.  Solomon  felt  weak;  he  leaned 
heavily  on  his  hoe,  and  stood  for  a  few  minutes 
in  deep  thought.  Then,  as  if  unable  to  bear  any 
longer  the  tension  of  silence,  he  spoke  low  to 
himself: 

"She  asked  me  in  her  letter  to  forgive  her 
and  let  her  come  here  and  live  with  me  in  this 
tent.  She  knows  I've  got  nothing  for  her;  that 
I've  lost  everything ;  and  yet  she  wants  to  come. 
Now,  what  for?  Just  to  make  me  give  in,  that's 
all;  just  to  show  folks  that  I  forgive  her  after 
I  said  I  wouldn't.  No,  I'll  never — "  and  he 
struck  the  hoe  forcefully  into  the  ground, 
"never  so  long  as  I  live  and  have  my  senses — " 
"Do  you  hope  to  be  forgiven,  Solomon  Stone?" 

Solomon  started  as  if  he  had  been  struck  in 
the  face,  dropped  the  hoe,  clapped  his  hands  to 
his  head  and  started  staggering  towards  the 
tent. 


THE    BATTLE    INVISIBLE  53 

"Come  in,  Aunt  Salina ;  come  right  in.  Why, 
what's  the  matter?  Is  Aunt  Lucinda  worse? 
asked  Alva,  anxiously. 

"No,  but  your  father,  Alva.  He's  took  awful 
sick.  He's  got  a  fit  or  a  sunstroke,  for  he  fell 
down  flat  on  his  face  just  outside  the  tent  door. 
Nathan  and  I  both  run  to  him  and  lifted  him 
up  on  the  bed,  and  there  he  lays  and  don't  know 
a  thing." 

By  this  time,  the  three  women  were  hurrying 
to  the  tent,  Louisa  several  strides  in  advance. 

"What  do  you  think  is  the  matter.  Aunt 
Salina?" 

"I  beHeve  it's  a  sunstroke,  Alva,  for  I  never  in 
my  life  see  a  man  work  as  that  man  has  worked 
this  afternoon,  and  it's  too  hot  for  any  one  to 
hoe  corn  today,  let  alone  a  man  as  old  as  he 
is.  Mary  and  I  have  been  watching  him  from 
the  window,  and  that's  how  I  come  to  see  him 
staggerin'  along  and  finally  fall  down." 

"I  don't  suppose  he'll  allow  us  to  do  anything 
for  him,"  said  Alva,  sadly. 

"Oh,  he  don't  know  anything  now,  Alva,  and 
when  he  comes  to,  if  he  objects,  why  you've 
done  your  duty,  and  that's  all  you  can  do." 

"What  is  it,  Nathan?  What  ails  father?" 
asked  the  young  wife  stepping  toward  her  hus- 
band who  had  just  come  out  of  the  tent. 


54  THE    BATTLE    INVISIBLE 

"I  don't  know,  Alva,  he  seems  overheated. 
Keep  cold  water  on  his  head.  I'm  going  after 
the  doctor,"  and  Nathan  hurried  away. 

For  more  than  a  week,  Solomon  Stone  was, 
to  all  appearances,  delirious.  The  first  two 
days  he  was  not  conscious  of  the  real  presence 
of  his  wife,  but  only  as  he  saw  her  in  the  corn 
field  with  her  black  hair  crowned  with  wild 
roses,  and  her  thin  white  dress  waving  in  the 
wind.  He  realized,  at  times,  the  illusion,  but 
in  his  weakness  he  clung  to  it.  At  other 
moments  he  was  conscious  of  the  presence  of 
the  real  Louisa  with  white  hair  and  black  dress. 
He  closed  his  eyes  and  feigned  sleep  whenever 
she  bent  over  him,  smoothed  his  brow  or  tucked 
the  sheet  ever  so  softly  about  his  shoulders. 
He  knew  now  that  it  was  her  breath  he  had 
felt  on  his  forehead,  her  cool  fingers  on  his 
wrist.  He  knew  it  was  Alva  who  prepared  the 
broths  and  brought  them  to  the  tent  door,  the 
strong  arms  of  Nathan  that  lifted  him  about, 
but  he  did  not  wish  them  to  know  that  he  knew 
it,  for  he  had  no  longer  either  the  physical 
power  or  the  strength  of  will  to  protest. 

It  was  Sunday  afternoon.  A  light  rain  had 
freshened  the  air,  and  an  agreeable  breeze 
swayed  gently  the  loose  canvas.  Solomon 
listened  to  the  birds  as  they  sang  and  quarreled 


THE     BATTLE     INVISIBLE  55 

in  the  branches  that  hung  low  over  his  head. 
He  could  hear  the  whirr  of  their  wings  as  they 
flew  from  branch  to  branch,  and  the  spasmodic 
breathing  of  the  cow  as  she  grazed  in  the  shade 
close  to  the  head  of  his  bed.  He  could  hear, 
now  and  then,  the  soft  swish  of  a  woman's 
dress.  He  lay  with  his  face  to  the  wall.  These 
were  his  thoughts :  "Louisa  thinks  I'll  forgive 
her  after  this  because  she's  done  so  much  for 
me.  She'll  be  disappointed  when  she  finds  that 
she's  had  all  her  trouble  for  nothing.  They 
think  they'll  down  me  now  while  I'm  sick  and 
helpless.  I'll  show  'em  they  can't.  Alva's 
helping  her  mother  along.  They  want  to  make 
me  give  in.  I  hate  to  make  Louisa  feel  bad; 
she  must  be  about  tired  out,  but  it's  her  own 
fault.  She  ought  to  know  by  this  time  that 
I  meant  it  when  I  told  her  fifteen  years  ago, 
when  her  father  died,  that  I  could  never  forget 
nor  forgive  her." 

"Forgive  her,  forgive  her,  forgive  her,"  rang 
in  his  dizzy  brain,  like  a  chant  of  far  distant 
music.  His  soul  seemed  to  vibrate  and  swing 
with  the  strains  of  it,  "forgive  her,  forgive  her, 
forgive  her." 

He  moved  uneasily  as  if  irritated.  A  soft 
hand  touched  his  forehead,  and  a  sweet  calm 
stole  over  him. 


56  THE    BATTLE    INVISIBLE 

"This  must  come  to  an  end,"  was  the  mental 
resolution  of  the  sick  man.  "It's  all  very  well 
to  lie  here  and  be  cared  for  and  petted  like  a 
baby,  but  I've  roughed  it  now  for  twenty  years 
without  petting,  and  I'm  going  to  rough  it  the 
rest  o'  the  way  down  the  hill.  'Twon't  be  far 
now.  Strange  how  the  touch  of  her  hand 
affects  me  after  all  she's  done,  and  after  so 
many  years.  This  must  end  now,  while  I  can 
end  it." 

Solomon  spoke  up  in  a  natural  voice: 
"Lucindy,  where  are  you?"  He  heard  the 
rustle  of  skirts,  a  soft  step,  then  the  sound  of 
some  one  running  outside. 

"Salina,  oh,  Salina!"  and  Louisa  Stone  sank 
down  panting  on  the  door-step.  "He's  come 
to.  Can't  you  go  right  over?  And  whatever 
you  do,  don't  let  him  know  I've  been  there ;  he'd 
be  furious,  I  know  he  would.  Go  quickly, 
Salina." 

"Lucindy  ain't  quite  well  enough  to  come 
over  today,  Mr,  Stone,  but  I  think  she  will  be  in 
a  few  days." 

"She's  getting  better,  is  she  ?" 

"Oh,  yes,  she's  much  better.  Fever's  all 
gone,  but  she's  weak.  Can't  stan'  on  her  feet 
to  save  her  life.     You're  looking  a  good  deal 


THE    BATTLE    INVISIBLE  57 

better  today,  Mr.  Stone.  Guess  ypu're  goin' 
to  get  right  along  now." 

"How  long  have  I  been  down  here,  Mrs. 
Bodkins?" 

"This  is  the  tenth  day;  but  I  calculate  you'll 
be  up  an'  around  in  two  or  three  days  more." 

"I  guess  I  can  go  to  sleep  now,  Mrs.  Bod- 
kins.    I've  been  awake  a  long  time." 

"All  right,  Mr.  Stone,  I'll  come  over  again 
bimeby. 

"Lucindy  Stone,  your  brother  is  a  different 
man.  I  can't  just  tell  what  it  is,  but  he's 
changed.  His  face  has  lost  a  good  deal  of  that 
hard  look.     Not  all  of  it,  but  some  of  it." 

"Well,  I  hope  he  is,"  said  Lucinda,  in  a 
doubtful  tone.  "He  ain't  much  of  a  han'  to 
change,  as  you  know,  S'liny,  an'  I'm  afraid  that 
your  'wish  is  father  to  your  thought.'  " 

"No,  it  is  not,  Lucindy.  I  tell  you  there's 
a  change."  Both  sat  silent  for  a  few  minutes, 
each  following  her  own  line  of  thought. 

"Lucindy,  do  you  suppose  he  knows  Louisa's 
been  there  taking  care  of  him  ?" 

"I  don't  b'Heve  he  does,  S'liny.  Louisa 
thinks  he  don't,  an'  I  believe  he'd  a  sent  her  off 
if  he'd  knowed  she  was  there." 

"I  don't  agree  with  you,  Lucindy;  I  believe 


58  THE     BATTLE     INVISIBLE 

he  knows  she's  been  there.  He's  just  as 
raytional  as  I  am  this  minute,  and  Louisa  says 
he  has  had  no  fever  for  three  days.  Old  Polly 
Downs  told  me  last  night  that  she  didn't  believe 
he'd  been  out  of  his  head  half  the  time.  Polly 
ought  to  know  for  she's  used  to  sickness,  and 
she's  been  there  a  good  share  of  every  day. 
Another  thing  I'm  sure  of,  Lucindy."  Salina 
sat  gazing  into  the  distance,  lost  in  thought. 
Lucinda  sat  waiting  with  her  eyes  fixed  on 
Salina ;  finally  she  spoke  up  a  little  impatiently. 

"I'd  reely  Hke  to  know,  S'liny,  if  you'd  jest 
as  lives  tell  me,  what  it  is  you're  so  sure  about." 

"I'm  sure  that  your  brother  thinks  the  world 
o'  that  baby.  She  came  into  the  tent  while  I 
was  there,  just  a  little  while  ago,  with  her  little 
dress  skirt  full  of  pink  tea  roses.  She  walked 
right  up  to  the  bed,  and  laid  them  all,  one  by 
one,  around  Solomon's  head ,  as  if  she  was 
framing  it.  Then  she  held  out  one  little  finger 
towards  him  and  said,  in  her  baby  way: 
'Gampa — f'ower — hurt — baby.' 

"Solomon  didn't  say  a  word,  but  I  shall  never 
forget  the  look  in  his  face,  and  if  I  ever  told 
the  truth  in  my  life,  Lucindy  Stone,  his  eyes 
filled  up  with  tears.  He  turned  his  face  to  the 
wall,  an'  I  just  walked  out  an'  come  home  to 
spare  his  feelin's." 


THE     BATTLE    INVISIBLE  59 

"Well,  he  must  think  a  good  deal  of  her,  if 
he  shed  tears  jes'  b'cause  she  pricked  her  finger. 
I  can't  see  through  it,  nohow.  We're  told  to 
prove  all  things  an'  hoi'  fast  that  which  is  good, 
S'liny,  but  I  can't  see,  for  my  part  how  we're 
ever  goin'  to  prove  that." 

F'or  three  days  and  nights,  a  fiercer  battle 
than  was  ever  fought  with  powder  and  ball 
raged  in  the  heart  of  Solomon  Stone.  Two 
powerful  elements  in  his  nature,  that  for  weeks 
had  been  drawing  nearer  and  nearer  together, 
engaged  at  last  in  deadly  combat.  He  lay 
alone  in  his  tent  refusing  all  assistance ;  neither 
food  nor  medicine  passed  his  lips.  How 
terrible  the  struggle  had  been  was  told  by  the 
sunken  eyes  and  the  deepened  lines  in  his 
strong  face.  He  stood  in  the  tent  door  lean- 
ing on  the  back  of  a  chair.  His  voice  was  very 
weak. 

"Polly,  I  wish  you'd  move  my  chair  out  in 
front  of  the  tent,  right  in  the  middle  of  that 
heavy  tree  shade.  It's  terribly  hot  in  here; 
there  isn't  a  breath  of  air  stirring." 

"How'll  that  do,  Mr.  Stone?" 

"Turn  the  chair  the  other  way,  Polly ;  I  don't 
want  to  have  to  look  back  into  the  tent;  I'm 
tired  enough  o'  that." 

"How  is  this,  Mr.  Stone?" 


60  THE    BATTLE    INVISIBLE 

"All  right,  now  you  can  go  home.  I  shall 
be  able  to  get  back  to  bed  alone." 

Solomon  had  no  sooner  leaned  back  in  his 
chair  than  he  saw  Salina  Bodkins  coming 
towards  him  carrying  a  bowl  of  broth. 

"I  really  wish  you  wouldn't  put  yourself  to 
so  much  trouble,  Mrs.  Bodkins.  It's  too  bad. 
I've  never  done  anything  for  you." 

"It'd  trouble  me  a  great  deal  more  not  to 
do  anything  for  you,  Mr.  Stone,  than  to  do  a 
little  once  in  a  while ;  so  you  see,  though  it  has 
the  look  of  kindness,  it's  mostly  selfishness. 
What  are  neighbors  for,  anyway,  Mr.  Stone,  if 
we're  not  to  help  one  another?" 

"Well,"  said  Solomon,  after  a  moments 
thought,  "I  can't  remember  of  ever  doing  any- 
thing for  my  neighbors." 

"Well,  then,  it's  about  time  you  did  do  some- 
thing, Mr.  Stone.  We  ain't  put  here  to  live  for 
ourselves  alone.  We're  meant  to  help  one 
another  whenever  it's  needful,  but  it  takes  some 
folks  a  long  time  to  find  it  out."  Silence 
reigned  for  a  few  moments.  Solomon  gazed 
at  the  woman  before  him  with  a  look  of  admira- 
tion mingled  with  curiosity.  No  other  woman 
had  ever  dared  so  much. 

"I  guess  you  haven't  a  very  good  opinion  o' 


THE    BATTLE    INVISIBLE  61 

me,  Mrs.  Bodkins;  I  don't  suppose  ^ny  of  the 
neighbors  have.  I  presume  you  all  think  I'm 
a  cold,  hard-hearted  man,  an'  I  don't  know  but 
I  am.  I've  had  enough  to  make  me  so."  It 
was  the  first  time  Solomon  had  ever  spoken  of 
his  trouble  to  any  one  but  Alva. 

"I  can't  say  what  the  neighbors  think,  Mr. 
Stone,  I  never  pay  much  attention  when  my 
neighbors  find  fault  with  one  another,  but  I 
know  what  I  think." 

"Well,  what  do  you  think,  Mrs.  Bodkins  ?  I 
should  really  like  to  know,"  and  Solomon 
looked  up  into  her  face,  inquiringly. 

"1  think,"  said  she,  after  a  long  pause,  "that 
you  are  not  half  so  hard-hearted  as  you  imagine 
you  are,  and  as  you  try  to  be.  You  think  it 
shows  strength  to  be  stubborn  and  unforgiving, 
but  it's  a  mistake ;  it  shows  weakness.  The 
meanest  soul  in  the  world  can  pity  himself  an' 
nurse  his  trouble ;  he  gets  a  sort  of  enjoyment 
out  of  it.  It's  awful  easy,  too ;  it  ain't  necessary 
to  have  any  particular  talent,  nor  anything  but 
the  commonest  brains;  in  fact,  Mr.  Stone, 
it  ain't  necessary  to  have  much  of  anything  but  a 
selfish  disposition." 

Solomon  sat  silent,  with  firmly  compressed 
lips. 


62  THE     BATTLE     INVISIBLE 

"I  sometimes  wonder,  Mr.  Stone,  when  I  see 
you  around  here  alone,  growing  more  gloomy 
and  sour  every  year,  if  it's  going  to  take  you  the 
whole  of  your  lifetime  to  find  out,  that  it  takes 
a  better  man  to  forgive  than  it  does  to  hold  a 
grudge." 

SaHna's  face  flushed  as  she  finished  speaking. 

"Now,  I  hope  I  hain't  said  too  much,  Mr. 
Stone." 

"No,  Mrs.  Bodkins.  You've  done  right.  I 
like  the  truth,  and  I  hate  deceit." 

A  sound  of  wheels  drew  their  attention  to 
the  road.  A  cloud  of  dust  was  rolling  by  with 
the  doctor's  gig  in  the  midst  of  it.  He  drove 
up  to  Nathan  Overton's,  hitched  his  horse,  and 
went  in. 

"Who's  sick  over  there,  Mrs.  Bodkins?" 
Salina  gazed  abstractedly  at  the  Overton  house 
for  a  few  moments  without  replying,  then  she 
spoke  as  if  to  herself. 

"I  shouldn't  wonder  if  she  didn't  get  up 
again.  She's  overdone,  and  she  ain't  strong 
anyway." 

"Whom  do  you  mean,  Louisa?" 

"Yes,  she's  awful  sick.  I  set  up  with  her 
all  last  night." 

After  Salina  had  gone,  Solomon  sat  in  deep 


THE    BATTLE    INVISIBLE  63 

thought  till  the  tree  shadows  stretched  away 
across  the  orchard  and  the  western  sky  turned 
red.  The  muscles  in  his  face  worked,  and  the 
veins  stood  out  on  his  forehead.  His  grey 
head  was  bent  and  rested  on  one  hand.  A 
light  sound  on  the  grass,  like  the  sweep  of  a 
sparrow's  wing,  and  Baby  Overton  announced 
that  she  had  arrived.  She  walked  slowly  up 
to  Solomon,  between  his  knees,  and  stepped 
upon  the  rounds  of  his  chair. 

"Did  you  come  over  to  see  grandpa,  baby?" 

"Tee — gampa."  And  a  happy  smile  lit  up 
her  face.  The  old  man  gazed  for  a  moment 
unrestrainedly  into  the  clear  innocent  eyes 
upturned  to  his,  then  he  lifted  the  little  one  to 
his  knee. 

"Baby,  grandpa  is  a  hard,  cross  old  man.  He 
has  been  hard  and  cold  for  so  many  years,  that 
he  came  near  forgetting  how  to  love,  and  he 
wonders  how  any  one  can  love  him,  but  I  guess 
they  do — I  guess  they  do." 

The  child  gazed  into  his  misty  eyes  with  a 
look  of  unquestioning  sympathy;  then  she 
threw  her  arms  around  his  neck  and  hugged 
him  with  all  her  strength.  The  remaining 
fragments  of  icy  crust  about  Solomon  Stone's 
heart    melted    awav.     Warm    blood    coursed 


64  THE     BATTLE     INVISIBLE 

through  his  veins  with  the  speed  of  youth,  as 
the  half-formed  resolution  in  his  mind  became  a 
definite  and  fixed  purpose. 

"Baby,  grandpa  is  going  over  to  see 
grandma,  will  baby  help  grandpa  walk?" 

"Gampa — walk,"  she  repeated,  slipping  down 
from  his  lap. 

"Get  grandpa's  cane,  then.  There  it  is 
leaning  up  against  the  tent.  Bring  it  here, 
baby,  bring  it  right  here  to  grandpa,  and  don't 
fall  over  the  boards.  Now,  we'll  go  and  see 
grandma." 

"Tee — gamma."  And  grasping  one  of  the 
old  man's  fingers,  she  started  forward  with  a 
hard  pull. 

"Not  quite  so  fast,  little  one;  grandpa  can't 
walk  very  fast,  he  must  go  very  slow,  baby,  very 
slow." 

When  they  reached  the  gate,  the  little  girl 
dropped  down  and  crawled  through  under  it,  as 
was  her  custom,  and  unlatched  it  from  the 
inside.  The  old  man,  pale  and  weak,  walked 
slowly  through,  questioning  as  he  looked  up  the 
long  narrow  path,  whether  his  strength  would 
hold  out  till  he  reached  the  house. 

Alva  saw  them  coming  and  ran  down  to  meet 
them.  Her  face  showed  neither  surprise  nor 
pleasure.     No    one    could    have    told    by    her 


THE    BATTIvE    INVISIBIyE  65 

expression  that  anything  unusual  was  taking 
place. 

"Put  your  arm  on  my  shoulder,  father,"  said 
she  in  a  low,  firm  voice.  The  old  man  did  as 
she  bade  him,  and  the  three  moved  slowly 
towards  the  house.  It  was  as  if  the  four  years 
just  passed  had  never  been. 

"S'liny,  come  here  quick.  There's  something 
or  other  the  matter  with  Mary.  She's  dropped 
her  crutch  an'  fell  down,  an'  I  can't  git  to  her 
to  save  my  life.  You  know  I  can't  stan'  on  my 
feet."  Lucinda  was  propped  up  in  a  rocking 
chair.  She  leaned  over  to  one  side  and  pounded 
on  the  cellar  door. 

"Hurry  up,  S'liny;  she's  down  on  her  knees 
starin'  out  o'  the  winder,  an'  she  won't  answer 
when  I  speak  to  her." 

Salina  rushed  up  the  cellarway,  panting. 
She  stopped  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  looking 
from  the  crutch  that  lay  at  her  feet  to  Mary, 
and  back  again. 

She  was  alarmed,  for  Mary  had  not  taken  a 
step  without  her  crutch  for  twenty-five  years. 
Salina  looked  at  Lucinda  questioningly. 
Lucinda  spoke  low,  pointing  to  the  crutch. 

"She  walked  from  it  over  to  the  winder." 

"Without  it?" 

E 


66  THE    BATTLE    INVISIBLE 

"Yes,  without  it." 

Salina  turned  pale.  Mary  still  knelt  at  the 
window  and  was  gazing  out  as  if  transfixed. 
Salina  tried  to  speak  naturally,  but  her  voice 
sounded  a  little  weak. 

"Mary,  Mary  Bodkins,  what  does  ail  you? 
What  be  you  a-doin'  there? 

Mary  kept  her  eyes  glued  to  the  window. 

"S'liny,  I  wish  you  and  Lucindy  Stone  would 
come  here  and  tell  me  if  there's  anything  the 
matter  with  me.  Do  I  see  Solomon  Stone 
walkin'  up  that  path  with  Alva  and  the  baby,  or 
don't  I  see  him?  If  I  don't,  then  I'm  goin'  to 
be  awful  sick,  an'  you'd  better  send  right 
straight  off  for  the  doctor." 

Before  Mary  had  ceased  speaking,  two  more 
faces  with  wide  open  eyes  and  parted  lips  were 
beside  hers  close  to  the  window. 

"  'Praise  God  from  whom  all  blessin's  flow.'  " 
exclaimed  Salina,  raising  her  arms.  Tears 
streamed  down  three  smiling  faces,  and  two 
handkerchiefs  and  the  corner  of  Salina's 
gingham  apron  were  brought  into  use. 

"Oh,  I'm  so  glad  and  so  thankful,"  exclaimed 
Lucinda,  between  sobs,  as  she  paced  back  and 
forth  with  measured  steps,  gently  wringing  her 
hands. 


THE     BATTivS     INVISIBLE  67 


«  t . 


*A11  things  come  to  them  that  wait,'  as 
Elder  White  said  las'  Sunday,  Saliny,  'all  things 
come  to  them  that  wait.'  " 

Salina  and  Mary  were  gazing  at  Lucinda  in 
open  mouthed  amazement, 

"Lucindy  Stone,  you're  a-walkin'.  Set  down 
this  minute.  You  know  you  can't  bear  your 
weight  on  your  feet." 

Lucinda  dropped  into  a  chair. 

"How  true  it  is,  Saliny,"  she  went  on,  wiping 
her  red  eyes,  that  'All  things  work  together  for 
good  to  them  that  love — .'  " 

"Why,  of  course  they  do,  Lucindy  Stone,  I've 
always  told  you  so,  but  it  does  take  some  folks 
forever  to  find  it  out." 


PATIENCE  AND  PRUDENCE 


69 


i 


PATIENCE    AND    PRUDENCE 

Old  John  Tolbert  knew  exactly  what  he  was 
about  when  he  sold  his  little  farm,  bought  with 
the  money  a  five-acre  lot  in  the  edge  of  Pepper- 
ton,  fenced  it,  divided  it  in  halves  by  running  a 
tight  board  fence  through  the  middle  from  the 
road  back,  and  built  on  each  half  a  snug  little 
three-room  cottage  for  each  of  his  two 
daughters,  Patience  and  Prudence. 

There  was  enough  money  left  after  the 
houses  were  finished  and  furnished  to  give 
them  two  coats  of  paint  or  dig  cellars  under 
them;  to  do  both  was  out  of  the  question. 
After  weeks  of  arguing,  sparring,  and  calcula- 
ting, the  cause  of  the  cellars  won,  much  against 
the  will  and  pleasure  of  Patience,  whose  vanity 
was  her  sister's  bete  noir. 

On  one  of  the  lots  there  was  a  good  well ;  on 
the  other,  two  fine  cherry  trees.  The  old  man's 
will  provided  that  whichever  of  the  girls 
occupied  the  well-less  lot,  should  have  the  right 
to  draw  water  at  her  sister's  curb ;  accordingly,, 
a  gate  was  cut  in  the  fence  beside  the  well. 

71 


72  PATIENCE     AND     PRUDENCE 

The  day  after  the  father's  funeral  the  will  was 
read,  giving  Prudence  the  lot  with  the  well,  and 
Patience  the  one  with  the  cherry  trees,  stipula- 
ting that  Patience  should  allow  her  sister  to 
have,  every  season,  half  the  cherries  from  the 
tree  in  the  corner.  The  winter  following  the 
old  man's  death,  the  wind  broke  off  the  larger 
part  of  the  tree,  and  what  was  left  yielded  only 
a  quart  or  two  of  fruit  each  season. 

"Whatever  be  you  a-doin'  up  there,  Prudence 
Tolbert?     You'll  fall  and  break  yer  neck." 

"No,  I  sha'n't  fall,  nuther;  I'm  hangin'  onto  a 
limb." 

"What  be  ye  puttin'  yer  bunnit  an'  shawl  up 
there  fur?" 

"Why,  I  put  it  up  to  scare  the  birds  away.  I 
sha'n't  git  a  cherry  this  year ;  they're  a-eatin'  of 
'em  jest  as  fast  as  they  git  ripe.  I'm  takin'  it 
down  now;  it  don't  do  no  good.  I  put  't  up 
airly  this  mornin'  'fore  you  was  up,  an'  when  I 
come  out  after  breakfus',  there  was  a  sassy  robin 
settin'  right  on  the  crown  o'  my  bunnit  singin' 
ter  split  his  throat.  I  throwed  a  club  at  'im  an' 
most  hit  'im,  but  he  fiew  over  inter  your  tree ; 
that's  him  singin'  now.  I  b'lieve  he's  jest 
a-doin'  of  it  to  be  sassy ;  the  little  rascal,  I'd  like 
ter  wring  his  neck."  And  Prudence  handed 
•down  what  looked  like  an  immense  rag  doll  to 


PATIENCE    AND     PRUDENCE  73 

her  sister,  then  felt  her  way  cautiously  down 
from  the  fence  under  the  tree. 

"Why,  yer  bunnit  rim's  all  broke  off, 
Prudence;  how'd  ye  do  it?" 

"Why,  I  hit  it  with  the  club,  I  guess,  when  I 
threw  it  at  that  nasty  robin.  Yes,  it's  spiled, 
ain't  it  ?  Now  I  shell  hev  ter  wear  my  best  one 
whether  't  rains  or  shines.  Goodness  me!  but 
it's  hot  up  in  that  tree,"  and  Prudence  wiped 
her  damp  face  on  the  corner  of  her  apron. 

At  the  time  of  the  father's  death  the  girls 
were  thirty-five  and  unmarried.  As  Prudence 
was  supposed  to  be  her  sister's  senior  by  fifteen 
minutes,  Patience  had  always  accorded  to  her 
the  deference  due  to  superior  knowledge  and 
longer  experience. 

It  was  the  middle  of  July.  Prudence  was 
standing  at  the  well.  She  had  just  drawn  a 
bucket  of  water.  She  straightened  her  tall,  lean 
figure,  threw  her  nose  into  the  air,  and  with 
dilated  nostrils  gave  a  few  quick  sniffs. 

"Goodness  me !  somethin's  burnin'.  I  do 
b'lieve  it's  Patience's  raspberry  jam.  Patience ! 
Patience  Tolbert !  Where  on  airth  be  ye  ?"  and 
Prudence,  running  into  her  sister's  kitchen, 
lifted  the  burning  jam  from  the  stove,  then  went 
round  to  the  front  of  the  house,  where  she 
found  her,  blissfully  ignorant  of  the  calamity, 


74  PATIENCE     AND     PRUDENCE 

busy  tying  a  rose  bush  to  a  stake  she  had  just 
driven  into  the  ground.  Prudence's  black 
eyes  were  snapping  with  excitement.  She 
towered  above  the  bent  figure,  her  face  a 
picture  of  scorn. 

Patience  rose  slowly  to  her  feet,  looking 
inquiringly  into  her  sister's  face. 

"What  is  it,  Prudence?— What's  the— What 
hev  I — "  her  voice  died  in  a  murmur.  Prudence 
measured  the  rose  bush,  then  her  sister,  with  a 
look  of  concentrated  contempt,  as  if  in  doubt 
which  of  the  two  were  the  more  to  be  despised. 
Her  long  sharp  nose  was  drawn,  and  her  thin 
lips  so  compressed  that  only  a  blue  line  of  each 
was  visible. 

"If  I  was  sech  a  fool  as  you  be,  Patience  Tol- 
bert,  I'd  go  an'  drown  myself,  that's  what  I'd 
do."  Then  she  turned,  holding  her  skirts  very 
high,  and  strode  through  the  unmown  grass 
back  to  the  well,  her  heels  parting  company 
with  her  low  slippers  at  each  step. 

Patience  stood  still,  looking  after  her,  until 
she  had  carried  the  pail  of  water  into  the  house. 
Patience  was  neither  frightened,  surprised,  nor 
hurt;  she  was  only  wondering  what  Prudence 
was  so  "mad"  about. 

"I  guess  't  mus'  be  b'cause  Miss  Jennings 
staid  to  supper  with  me  las'  night ;  I  noticed  she 


PATIENCE    AND    PRUDENCE  75 

wouldn't  speak  when  I  was  hangin'  out  the 
clothes  this  mornin',  an'  I  though  'twas  b'cause 
I  got  mine  on  the  line  first ;  that  alius  did  make 
'er  'mad.'  "  Then  she  stooped  down  to  finish 
tying  up  the  rose  bush.  Suddenly,  with  a 
frightened  look,  she  sprang  erect  and  sniffed  the 
air;  then  darted  round  the  house  and  in  at  the 
back  door. 

"Oh !  my  jam,  my  jam !     It's  burnin'  up." 

"Oh,  no,  it  ain't,  it's  already  burnt  up,"  came 
in  a  tantalizing  voice  from  over  the  fence. 

"If  you'd  ruther  'tend  to  rose  bushes  than  yer 
jam,  why,  ye  kin  do  it — 't  ain't  none  o'  my  busi- 
ness ;  but  I  ain't  goin'  to  divide  mine  with  ye  as 
I  did  my  black  currant  preserves  last  year,  an' 
ye  needn't  a-look  for  it." 

Prudence  had  walked  back  to  the  well  under 
pretense  of  taking  in  the  clean  dish  towels 
which  hung  on  a  gooseberry  bush  beside  the 
gate,  but  really  for  the  purpose  of  firing  a  few 
more  volleys  into  her  sister's  smoking  kitchen. 
She  loved  to  force  down  the  unwilling  throats 
of  her  friends,  for  their  own  good,  the  very 
dregs  of  the  benefits  of  experience. 

"I  ain't  lookin'  fer  ye  to  divide ;  your'n's  too 
thick  anyway,"  murmured  Patience,  well  aware 
that  her  speech  was  a  fatal  stab  to  peace  for  a 
week  at  least.     She  had  carried  the  kettle  out, 


76  PATIENCE    AND    PRUDENCE 

set  it  on  the  ground  in  front  of  the  kitchen  door 
and  stood  looking  at  it. 

"There  ain't  no  need  o'  takin'  on  so  about  it. 
Prudence;  I  ain't  so  terrible  fond  o'  raspberry 
jam  as  I  use  ter  be — I'm  goin'  to  make  some  out 
o'  gooseberries — they're  reel  good  when 
comp'ny  comes." 

"But  ye  don't  like  *em  yerself ;  ye  sold  all  ye 
had,  last  year." 

"I  know  I  did,  but  I — I  Hke  'em  better  'n  I 
use'  ter." 

No  sign  of  recognition  passed  between  the 
two  sisters  after  this  conversation  until  the 
following  Sunday.  The  presiding  elder  was 
going  to  preach,  and  everybody  who  ever  went 
to  meeting  turned  out.  All  sorts  and  condi- 
tions of  teams  and  vehicles  from  the  surround- 
ing country  filled  the  church  grounds.  The 
Tolbert  girls  attended  service  at  least  once 
every  Sunday.  In  obedience  to  a  suggestive 
nod  from  the  minister.  Patience  usually  started 
the  hymns.  Old  Father  Hartman,  a  gray- 
haired,  round-shouldered  man  with  gold  glasses 
had  done  it  formerly;  but  his  voice  was  begin- 
ning to  tremble,  for  he  was  well  past  his  three- 
score years  and  ten.  Besides  he  had  such  a 
habit  of  dropping  the  last  word  of  every  line, 
and  beginning  the  next  one  before  the  rest  of 


PATIENCE     AND     PRUDENCE  77 

the  congregation  could  possibly  catch  breath, 
that  it  annoyed  the  new  minister.  Brother  Jones 
from  Boston,  who  was,  in  the  opinion  of  some 
of  the  older  members,  a  shade  too  fastidious. 

Patience  had  a  clear,  full,  sweet,  uncultivated 
soprano  voice,  of  which  Prudence  was  very 
proud,  and  as  a  result,  the  weekly  sins  (whether 
real  or  imaginary)  of  Patience  against  her  sister 
were  all  swallowed  up  each  Sunday  morning,  in 
the  clear,  sweet  tones  of  her  singing  voice. 

The  last  ringing  of  the  church  bell  for  morn- 
ing services  had  just  begun  when  Prudence 
closed  her  gate  behind  her  and  started  for  meet- 
ing. She  had  picked  a  little  bunch  of  spearmint 
and  rolled  it  up  in  her  handkerchief  to  scent  it. 
She  had  seen  from  her  window  that  Patience 
had  her  bonnet  and  shawl  on,  and  had  started 
towards  the  door  before  she  herself  had 
ventured  out.  Her  tall,  prim  figure  rigidly 
erect,  she  walked  past  her  sister's  gate  with  her 
nose  in  the  air,  not  so  much  as  turning  her  head 
to  see  if  she  was  coming.  Prudence  had  no 
notion,  however,  of  going  in  to  meeting  without 
Patience.  It  would  be  sure  to  be  remarked 
upon — everybody  would  know  they  had  quar- 
reled. Moreover,  Prudence  was  not  half  so 
angry  as  she  wished  to  be ;  she  was  short  of  fuel 
for  her  wrath.     It  seemed  to  her  undignified  to 


78  PATIENCE    AND    PRUDENCE 

let  anger  wear  itself  away;  so  she  nursed  it, 
fanning  the  embers  of  resentment  by  carrying 
on  imaginary  conversations  with  her  sister,  in 
which  Patience  always  grossly  insulted  and 
abused  her,  until  Prudence  really  came  to 
believe  her  own  anger  righteous. 

Patience  was  in  no  hurry.  She  had  stopped 
to  pick  a  few  roses,  knowing  exactly  the  state 
of  her  sister's  mind  and  feelings.  She  knew 
Prudence  would  invent  some  excuse  to  wait. 

Prudence  took  off  her  gloves  and  untied  one 
of  her  shoes.  "Feels  loose,"  she  mumbled  to 
herself,  then  she  re-tied  it.  She  didn't  finish 
until  Patience  had  passed  her  a  little.  She 
wanted  to  be  sure  that  Patience  should  see  the 
shoe  and  the  tying.  By  the  time  Prudence  rose 
up,  her  sister  was  a  few  feet  ahead  of  her. 
Patience  halted  to  pull  a  "stick-tight"  off  her 
dress  skirt,  so  the  two  came  into  line  and  moved 
on  together.  They  walked  in  the  middle  of  the 
road  because  there  was  no  sidewalk  except  near 
the  church,  and  the  weeds  beside  the  road  were 
dusty.  Prudence  held  her  dress  well  up  in  front 
with  one  hand,  and  carried  her  hymn-book  and 
turkey-tail  fan  in  the  other.  She  wore  a  black 
dress,  a  black  straw  bonnet  trimmed  with  black 
ribbon  and  a  bunch  of  purple  flowers.  The 
fringe  on  the  bottom  of  her  black  silk  cape 


PATIENCE    AND    PRUDENCE  79 

flapped  briskly  back  and  forth  as  she  walked. 
It  seemed  to  Patience  that  it  always  flapped  a 
little  more  spitefully  going  to  meeting  than 
on  the  way  home ;  it  was  an  unerring  reflection 
of  its  wearer's  moods. 

Patience  glanced  furtively  at  her  now  and 
then,  the  dimples  in  the  corners  of  her  mouth 
deepening.  She  was  not  quite  so  tall  as 
Prudence,  but  fairer.  She  wore  a  brown  Irish 
poplin  gown,  a  brown  straw  bonnet  with  yellow 
roses,  and  a  black  silk  shawl  with  wide  knotted 
fringe.  It  kept  slipping  off  her  shoulders ;  but 
she  did  not  mind ;  she  rather  liked  the  careless 
effect.  She  carried  a  brown  satin  parasol  which 
had  been  her  mother's  and  of  which  she  was  for 
that  reason  very  "choice."  The  handle  was  a 
horse's  head  carved  in  ivory;  the  ornament  on 
top  had  also  been  of  carved  ivory,  but  it  was 
broken  off  close  down  to  the  silk. 

As  the  two  sisters  walked  up  the  meeting- 
house steps.  Prudence  took  a  little  nibble  of  the 
dried  sweet-flag  root  she  always  carried  in  her 
pocket.  Patience  fell  back  a  little  behind  her, 
and  fastened  one  of  the  pink  roses  she  carried 
to  the  bosom  of  her  dress.  She  pretended  to 
herself  to  hope  that  Prudence  would  not  notice 
it.  The  consciousness  of  her  own  vanity,  and 
what  the  brothers  and  sisters  might  think  of 


80  PATIENCE     AND     PRUDENCE 

such  a  display,  deepened  the  pink  in  her  cheeks 
as  she  walked  up  the  aisle  holding  her  chin  a 
trifle  higher  than  was  her  wont.  There  was  a 
spice  of  defiance  in  her  bearing — a  mute 
defense  of  her  love  for  the  beautiful. 

The  hymn  was  announced  with  the  usual  nod 
to  Patience,  and  her  voice  rang  out  clear  and 
sweet:  "Must  I  be  carried  to  the  skies  on 
flowery  beds  of  ease."  Everybody  looked  at 
her.  They  had  never  heard  her  sing  so  well 
before.  Nobody  knew  why  it  was;  she  herself 
did  not  know;  but  it  was  her  unconscious 
defense  of  the  rose  in  her  dress.  The  rigidity 
of  Prudence  at  once  relaxed.  After  they  had 
reseated  themselves,  she  moved  nearer  to 
Patience  until  their  arms  touched;  then  she 
smelt  of  the  spearmint  in  her  handkerchief, 
gave  a  little  sigh  of  contentment,  and  riveted 
her  eyes  piously  upon  the  minister.  Patience 
knew  that  in  her  sister's  book  of  reckoning,  her 
sins  were  once  more  blotted  out. 

The  text  chosen  was  from  Second  Timothy, 
the  ninth  verse:  "In  like  manner  also,  that 
women  adorn  themselves  in  modest  apparel 
*  *  *  Not  with  braided  hair,  or  gold,  or 
pearls,  or  costly  array,  but  (which  becometh 
women  professing  godliness)  with  good  works." 


PATIENCE     AND    PRUDENCE  81 

Patience  was  ill  at  ease  throughout  the  ser- 
vice. She  felt  that  she  was  the  particular  target 
for  every  dart,  hurled  from  the  pulpit  at  the 
vanity  of  her  sex.  If  she  had  been  decked  with 
garlands  of  roses  from  head  to  foot  and  stood 
up  for  a  flower  sign,  she  could  not  have  felt 
more  conspicuous. 

After  the  service,  everyone  went  directly  out- 
side,— it  was  very  warm  in  the  church, — and 
stood  on  and  about  the  wide  steps  talking  and 
shaking  hands. 

The  men  wiped  their  foreheads  and  fanned 
themselves  with  their  straw  hats,  and  the 
women  drew  their  thin  wraps  about  their 
shoulders,  for  it  was  not  fashionable  in  Pepper- 
ton  to  go  without  any  kind  of  a  wrap,  no  matter 
how  hot  the  weather  was. 

When  she  thought  no  one  was  noticing  her. 
Patience  drew  her  shawl  closely  about  her 
shoulders,  then  pulled  the  rose  from  the  bosom 
of  her  dress  and  dropped  it  by-her  side.  The 
heat  had  made  it  droop  a  little;  that  was  why, 
she  decided,  that  she  did  not  wish  to  wear  it 
any  longer.  Brother  Jones  from  Boston,  as 
he  was  usually  called  by  the  church  members, 
picked  up  the  rose;  after  most  of  the  congrega- 
tion had  dispersed,  laid  it  against  his  vest  and 


82  PATIENCE    AND    PRUDENCE 

buttoned  his  coat  over  it.  He  knew  it  was 
the  one  Patience  had  worn ;  he  saw  her  drop  it. 
He  was  fond  of  flowers,  especially  of  roses. 

"How  did  ye  Hke  the  sermon?"  asked 
Prudence  as  they  were  walking  homewards. 

"Well  enough,"  replied  Patience  a  little 
tartly,  for  she  felt  that  there  was  something 
of  a  challenge  in  the  question.  She  failed  to 
consider,  in  her  perturbed  state,  that  her  sister 
rarely  failed  to  ask  the  same  question,  the 
sermon  usually  furnishing  the  topic  of  conversa- 
tion on  their  homeward  walk. 

"Well,  there  ain't  no  need  o'  bein'  so  snappy," 
replied  Prudence,  drawing  herself  up.  She  was 
at  least  an  inch  taller  when  she  was  angry.  It 
seemed  to  have  an  elongating  effect  which  she 
couldn't  help.  "You  wouldn't  'a'  felt  it  so  if 
you  hadn't  been  overdressed — it's  the  hit  bird 
that  alius  flutters,  an'  you  wouldn't  'a'  had  no 
call  to  flutter,  if  you'd  take  yer  elder  sister's 
advice  an'  dress  as  a  woman  o'  your  age,  that 
pretends  ter  be  pious,  had  orter  dress,"  and 
Prudence  swept  majestically  past  her  sister's 
gate  and  went  in  at  her  own.  She  halted  as  she 
reached  the  door-step,  and  looked  at  Patience, 
who  had  stopped  among  her  roses. 

"I  invited  Brother  Jones  to  tea  tomorrer 
afternoon — I   told   'im   you'd   be   over  to   my 


PATIENCE    AND    PRUDENCE  83 

house.  Bring  yer  crochet  work  along;  it  does 
look  so  shiftless  to  set  an'  do  nothin'."  Then 
she  went  into  the  house. 

Patience  looked  a  moment  at  the  closed  door 
that  had  swallowed  up  the  long,  gaunt  figure  of 
her  sister.  "I'll  git  my  washin'  out  first,  to- 
morrer,  that 's  what  I'll  do,  Prude  Tolbert,"  and 
she  drew  her  lips  into  a  little  pucker,  always 
a  sign  of  decision  and  determination. 

The  next  morning  at  eight  o'clock,  Patience 
was  hanging  out  her  clothes.  She  glanced 
cautiously  over  the  sheet  she  was  pinning  to 
the  line,  and  saw  through  her  sister's  window 
that  her  tall  form  was  bent  over  the  steaming 
suds  and  that  the  boiler  was  still  on  the  stove. 
Patience  laughed  behind  the  sheet,  till  she 
dropped  the  clothes-pin  she  held  in  her  mouth. 
"Poor  Prudence,"  she  finally  sighed,  "I 
wouldn't  have  such  a  temper  for  the  world.  But 
she  was  alius  so,  father  said  she  was  born  mad, 
poor  Prude !  It  mus'  be  dretful  uncomfortable 
for  'er.  There  air  times  when  she  ain't  mad, 
but  she  wouldn't  hev  any  one  find  it  out  fer 
the  world.  She  seems  to  enjoy  feeHn'  that  she's 
bein'  trod  on." 

Prudence  finished  her  washing  and  left  the 
clothes  in  the  rinse  water.  She  met  Patience 
at  the  well  when  she  went  after  the  last  pail  of 
water  to  pour  over  them. 


84  PATIENCE    AND    PRUDENCE 

"You  ain't  got  yer  close  out  yet,  Prudence ; 
ye  must  hev  a  big  wash  today,"  remarked  the 
tantalizing  Patience. 

"Got  done  a  good  while  ago — all  but  the 
towels.  I  ain't  a  goin'  ter  put  'em  out  till  the 
sun  shines.  Your'n  won't  look  nohow.  Your 
close  is  lookin'  dretful  gray  lately.  Patience, 
you'd  orter  rub  'em  longer." 

At  twelve  o'clock,  feeling  that  by  her  seem- 
ing indifference  she  had  shorn  Patience  of  her 
laurels,  Prudence  hung  out  her  clothes. 
Patience  came  out  with  her  basket  to  take  in 
the  last  of  the  thick  pieces ;  the  rest  were  all  dry. 

"Seems  to  me  it  looks  a  little  brighter  'n  it 
did,"  said  Prudence,  as  she  shook  out  a  wet 
pillow-case,  looking  inquiringly  up  at  the  sky. 

"Yes,  I  dunno  but  't  does.  How  white  your 
close  do  look.  Prudence.  I  b'lieve  it's  a  good 
thing  to  let  'em  soak  a  spell  in  rench  water." 

Patience  did  not  smile ;  she  would  not  have 
dared ;  the  dimples  in  her  cheeks  only  deepened 
a  little. 

"Ye  got  any  cucumbers  big  enough  to  eat 
yet,  Patience?" 

"No,  an'  I  don't  see  any  on  the  vines  either; 
mine  ain't  done  very  well  this  year." 

"I  picked  four  big  ones  off'm  mine  las'  night ; 
you  kin  hev  one  or  two  of  'em ;  I  sha'n't  want 
'em  all." 


PATIENCE    AND     PRUDENCE  85 

It  was  three  o'clock.  Prudence  had  touched 
up  here  and  there  her  always  immaculate  sitting- 
room  after  she  finished  her  kitchen  work;  but 
as  she  was  every  minute  expecting  Brother 
Jones,  she  walked  about,  wiping  imaginary 
specks  of  dust  from  the  furniture,  smoothing 
the  tidies  and  giving  a  few  extra  little  pats  to 
the  cushion  in  the  easy  chair  by  the  window 
where  she  expected  him  to  sit.  The  windows 
and  doors  were  all  open,  and  a  faint  breeze 
stirred  gently  the  thin  muslin  curtains. 

"Good  afternoon.  Brother  Jones,  come  right 
in  an'  take  a  chair, — this  chair, — take  this  chair, 
Brother  Jones,"  and  Prudence  laid  her  hand  on 
the  back  of  the  big  stuffed  chair  by  the  window. 

"No,  thank  you,  Sister  Tolbert,  I'll  just  sit 
right  down  here  in  the  doorway  where  it'll  be 
cool.  Very  warm,  isn't  it?"  and  he  sat  down 
on  a  carpet-covered  soap  box  that  Prudence 
used  for  a  footstool. 

Her  sallow  face  rarely  showed  color;  one 
would  never  have  supposed,  from  her  looks, 
that  the  blood  ever  ventured  above  her  collar 
bone ;  but  when  the  minister  coolly  seated  him- 
self on  the  soap  box,  her  face  actually  turned 
pink.  For  a  man  of  his  calling  to  take  such  a 
seat  in  her  house  was  too  much  for  her  ideas  of 
propriety.  She  inwardly  rejoiced,  however,  that 
he  was  ignorant  of  the  truth,  and  she  wondered 


86  PATIENCE     AND     PRUDENCE 

if  she  was  doing  right  in  allowing  him  to  remain 
in  ignorance.  She  resolved  not  to  enlighten 
him,  and  hoped  that  none  of  the  church  mem- 
bers would  ever  find  it  out.  While  these 
thoughts  were  passing  through  her  mind,  she 
sat  in  the  attitude  of  an  intent  listener,  with  her 
hands  folded  primly  in  her  lap. 

"Do  you  not  find  it  so.  Sister  Tolbert?" 

Prudence  had  heard  nothing  but  the  ques- 
tion, which  clearly  pointed  to  some  previous 
observation. 

"Well,  reely,  brother,  I — I  didn't  quite  ketch 
yer  meanin',''  and  she  put  on  a  studious  expres- 
sion, leaning  a  little  forward. 

"Why,  that  the  weather  is  warmer  than  it 
was  at  this  time  last  year.  Sister  Tolbert." 

"Yes,  I  dunno  but  'tis.  You're  quite  right, 
brother,  'tis  warmer  'n  'twas  last  year." 

As  the  hour  between  three  and  four  wore 
away.  Prudence  gradually  forgot  the  soap  box, 
and  was  talking  quite  in  her  accustomed  strain. 
She  used  a  little  different  tone  from  ordinary 
when  speaking  to  ministers.  She  thought  their 
calling  deserved  it.  She  used  the  same  tone  in 
class-meeting;  some  of  the  young  scoffers  of 
Pepperton  whom  she  had  frequently  chased  out 
of  her  watermelon  patch,  called  it  her  Sunday 
voice. 


PATIENCE    AND    PRUDENCE  87 

"I  reely  wish  you'd  hev  a  good  ser'us  talk 
with  'er,  Brother  Jones,"  Prudence  was  saying 
"It  don't  do  no  good  for  me  to  say  anything, 
she's  so  sot.  Patience  is.  Now  you  noticed  that 
pink  rose  she  wore  pinned  to  'er  dress  Sunday, 
didn't  ye?"  As  at  this  moment  Brother  Jones 
had  the  rose  in  his  coat  pocket,  a  wave  of  guilty 
color  swept  over  his  face.  But  he  meant  to 
be  brave  and  say  a  word  in  defense  of  the  absent, 
erring  sister.  So  he  said,  as  he  looked  down  at 
his  fingers,  carefully  matching  the  ends  to- 
gether, "I — I  did  notice  the  rose,  and  I  must  say 
that  I  thought  it  looked — it  looked — "  very 
pretty,  he  was  going  to  say,  but  Prudence  cut 
him  short 

"Yes,  yes,  I  intirely  agree  with  you.  Brother 
Jones.  Sech  display,  right  in  meetin',  right  in 
the  face  of  a  minister,  is  not  becomin'  in  a 
woman  o'  her  age  an'  perfession.  I  do  wish 
you'd  go  over  to  her  house  some  day  soon  an' 
pray  an'  wrestle  with  'er  an'  convince  'er  if  ye 
kin  that  she'd  orter  dress  more  modest.  But 
don't  mention  it  afore  me,  brother.  It  'ud  only 
ag'avate  'er;  whenever  I,  her  own  sister,  speak 
to  'er  on  the  subjick  of  'er  vanity — " 

The  sentence  was  cut  short  by  an  apparition 
in  blue  gingham  and  white  embroidery  in  the 
doorway.     Patience,  in  a  spirit  of  defiance,  had 


88  PATIENCE    AND    PRUDENCE 

picked  a  fresh  pink  rose  and  tucked  it  in  her 
belt.  Prudence  glanced  at  her,  then  signifi- 
cantly at  the  minister,  with  a  look  that  plainly 
said,  "There  now,  you  see  it's  just  as  I  told  you, 
she  is  determined  to  make  herself  pretty." 

Patience  sat  in  the  rocker  and  crocheted, 
leaving  the  conversation  mostly  to  her  sister 
and  the  minister.  Their  subjects  were  prin- 
cipally theological,  the  dififerent  modes  of  bap- 
tism receiving  the  lion's  share  of  attention. 
Prudence,  though  a  staunch  Methodist,  never 
had  believed  in  sprinkling.  She  considered  it 
a  slipshod,  cross  lot,  inexcusable  way  of  eva- 
ding the  Lord's  commands,  adopted  solely  to 
avoid  getting  wet  all  over. 

At  five  o'clock  Prudence  went  out  into  the 
kitchen  to  make  the  tea.  She  put  on  her  best 
china  and  glass,  her  fine  table  cloth,  and  her 
mother's  pewter  teapot,  which  was  never  used 
except  when  company  came ;  she  always  kept  it 
wrapped  up  in  tissue  paper.  She  put  on  the 
table  some  thin  slices  of  cold  ham,  some  little 
cubes  of  cheese,  bread  and  butter,  tea,  cake, 
and  raspberry  jam. 

"Tea's  all  ready  now,"  said  Prudence,  as  she 
came  back  into  the  sitting-room.  She  noticed 
that  Patience  bent  over  her  work  and  was 
blushing. 


PATIENCE    AND     PRUDENCE  89 

"He  must  'a'  spoke  to  'er  a'ready  on  the  sub- 
jick  of  'er  vanity,"  thought  she.  "The  dear, 
good  man !  He  means  to  do  his  duty,  Brother 
Jones  does." 

"Jest  walk  right  out.  Brother  Jones,"  she 
continued  in  a  softened  voice,  "Come,  Patience, 
dear." 

Less  weighty  topics  were  indulged  in  during 
tea;  the  ways  and  means  of  providing  a  new 
carpet  for  the  pulpit  floor ;  charity  families ;  the 
severe  illness  of  one  of  the  oldest  and  wealthiest 
members,  and  the  best  way  to  raise  potatoes. 
Brother  Jones  was  of  the  opinion  that  if  we 
expect  to  reap  as  we  sow,  we  should  plant  the 
largest,  choicest  potatoes.  Prudence  con- 
sidered his  method  a  needless  waste,  but  as  it 
accorded  otherwise  with  her  religious  creed  and 
the  opinion  of  a  minister,  she  decided  on  the 
spot,  that  in  future  she  would  plant  as  she 
would  reap — so  far  as  her  potatoes  were  con- 
cerned. Further  she  unhappily  did  not  con- 
sider. Prudence  noticed  that  her  sister  took  no 
jam  when  it  was  passed.  She  felt  uncomforta- 
ble at  this,  and  passed  it  again,  with  no  better 
result.  Finally  she  set  it  down  beside  her 
sister's  plate.  But  Patience  was  eating  cheese 
with  her  bread — she  didn't  care  for  any  jam. 

Prudence  was  a  shade  more  gentle  to  her 


90  PATIENCE     AND     PRUDENCE 

sister  during  the  week  following.  She  felt  that 
she  had  taken  an  advantage  of  Patience,  de- 
ceived her ;  and  although  Prudence  was  bruising 
to  heal,  she  was  sure  that  the  end  justified  the 
means.  The  consciousness  of  her  own  decep- 
tion softened  her.  She  had  decided  that  when 
the  minister  called  on  Patience  she  would  take 
no  notice  of  it  whatever.  She  did  not  wish  to 
irritate  her  erring  sister  while  she  was  being 
wrested  from  the  toils  of  her  besetting  sin. 

On  the  Wednesday  afternoon  following  his 
visit  to  Prudence,  the  minister  called  on 
Patience.  From  a  little  opening  in  the  blind. 
Prudence  kept  watch.  The  houses  were  so 
close  together  that  she  could  hear  their  voices, 
but  was  able  to  distinguish  only  a  word  now  and 
then.  She  could  see  her  sister's  profile  against 
the  lace  curtain — another  mark  of  her  unholy 
pride — and  she  noticed  that  her  face  had  grown 
serious;  Patience  had  stopped  crocheting  and 
was  leaning  back  in  her  chair.  The  minister 
sat  in  the  rocker,  and  she  could  see  him  move 
gently  back  and  forth,  swaying  the  fringed  tidy 
that  hung  over  the  back  of  his  chair.  She 
wished  he  would  not  rock  while  he  talked  to 
Patience.  It  seemed  to  her  that  it  must  de- 
tract somewhat  from  the  seriousness  of  his 
words. 


PATIENCE     AND     PRUDENCE  91 

"I  do  wonder  how  she'll  take  it  ?  I  hope  he'll 
mention  the  lace  curtains  an'  that  long  wool  one 
she's  got  hung  up  fer  a  bedroom  door.  I 
wonder  what  poor  father  'd  say  to  see  her  good 
bedroom  door  tucked  away  in  the  cellar  behind 
the  purtater  bin,  and  a  curtain  hung  up  in  place 
of  it.  But  she's  so  sot,  Patience  is — mebbe  I'd 
orter  hinted  to  Brother  Jones  thet  he'd  better 
not  mention  the  pink  rose  an'  the  lace  curtains 
the  same  day.  Then  there's  them  two  long  side 
curls  she  pins  on  most  every  afternoon — I  do 
hope  he'll  notice  'em.  I  wonder  if  she's  got  'em 
on  today."  The  anxious  watcher  pressed  her 
eyes  as  close  to  the  crevice  as  her  long  nose 
would  permit.  "Yes,"  said  she,  "she's  got 
on  her  curls,  I  do  hope  he'll  notice  'em. 
There,  he's  goin'  away.  I  wonder  'f  she's 
insulted  him.  No,  she's  smilin'  an'  he's  smilin', 
too — she's  took  it  fust  rate.  Dear  good  man ! 
how  perlite  he  is !  He  takes  off  his  hat  an'  bows 
to  'er,  jest  the  way  Elder  Brown  o'  Boston  did 
to  me  one  day.  I  do  hope  the  conference  '11 
send  Brother  Jones  back  here  next  year,"  and 
with  her  hand  on  her  heart  she  drew  a  long,  deep 
sigh.- 

"I  b'lieve  I'll  jest  run  over  to  Patience's  with 
one  o'  my  fresh  pies — I'll  jest  hand  'er  the  pie 
'n'  come  right  home,  er  she  might  think  I'd 


92  PATIENCE    AND     PRUDENCE 

come  over  to  spy  'round  an'  ask  questions. 
While  she's  takin'  the  pie  off'm  the  tin  an' 
puttin'  it  on  a  plate,  I'll  jest  notice  if  she's  been 
a-cryin'." 

Patience,  unaware  of  the  plot  to  rescue  her  as 
a  brand  from  the  burning,  was  unable  to  fathom 
her  sister's  kindness  in  giving  her  the  pie  and 
the  cucumbers. 

On  Saturday  the  minister  called  again  and 
staid  to  tea.  Prudence  took  up  her  post  at  the 
window  and  listened,  but  the  wind  was  blowing 
and  she  could  not  hear  their  voices. 

"I  s'pose  he  thinks  he  kin  git  a  better  hold 
on  'er  by  bein'  sociable  like  an'  stayin'  to  tea. 
A'most  all  women'll  stan'  more  when  they're 
servin'  tea  over  their  own  table  than  anywhere 
€lse.  I  know  I  would.  I  know  Brother  Jones 
'd  hev  a  powerful  influence  over  me  at  my  own 
table,  if  there  wa'n't  no  one  else'  round  to  take 
my  mind  oflf." 

So  the  weeks  went  by,  and  the  minister  con- 
tinued his  calls.  One  day  he  called  on 
Prudence,  but  she  had  no  opportunity  to  ask 
him  how  he  was  succeeding  and  if  he  had  any 
hope  of  a  final  rescue,  for  Patience  came  with 
him. 

"What  a  turrible  wrestle  the  poor  man  mus' 
be  a-havin'  with  'er!"  said  Prudence  to  herself 


PATIENCE     AND     PRUDENCE  9S 

as  she  lighted  the  lamp  and  sat  down  to  read. 
"I  do  hope  he  won't  give  'er  over  to  Satan." 

Prudence  always  sat  down  to  read  after  the 
supper  dishes  were  washed,  and  always  went 
directly  to  sleep  with  the  book  in  her  lap.  The 
result  was,  she  had  been  all  summer  reading  the 
first  two  chapters  of  the  Pilgrim's  Progress. 
She  dreamed  as  she  sat  there  snoring  with  her 
mouth  open  and  her  lower  jaw  resting  on  her 
breast,  that  there  was  some  one  knocking  on 
the  door.  She  opened  the  door  (in  her  dream) 
and  saw  Patience  standing  on  the  steps,  all 
dressed  in  white  from  head  to  foot.  On  her 
head  she  wore  a  wreath  of  white  roses,  and  held 
a  bunch  of  the  same  kind  in  her  hand ;  then  she 
heard  some  more  knocks  that  were  less  ethereal 
than  the  first,  and  that  caused  her  to  shut  her 
mouth  and  open  her  eyes. 

"Some  one  is  a-knockin',  I  b'lieve,"  said  she, 
rising,  the  Pilgrim's  Progress  with  her  spectacles 
inside  sliding  off  her  lap  to  the  floor.  She 
cautiously  parted  the  muslin  curtains  and 
peeped  out. 

"Why,  it's  Brother  Jones.  The  dear,  good 
man !  he's  come  to  tell  me  'bout  Patience — I  do 
hope — Good  evenin',  Brother  Jones,  come  right 
in  an'  set  down.  I  do  b'Heve  I  must  'a'  been 
a-dozin'  when  you  knocked  the  fus'  time — did 


94  PATIENCE     AND     PRUDENCE 

you  knock  the  fus'  time,  Brother  Jones,  er  did 
I  dream  it?" 

"I  knocked  several  times.  Sister  Tolbert,  but 
I  felt  sure  you  were  at  home,  because  there  was 
such  a  bright  light  in  the  room." 

"Yes,  yes,  you're  quite  right,  Brother  Jones, 
I'm  to  home,"  replied  Prudence,  in  the  con- 
fusion of  her  sudden  awakening. 

"I  came  over  this  evening,  Sister  Tolbert,  to 
talk  to  you  about — about — " 

"Yes,  about  my  sister,  about  Patience, 
Brother  Jones,  I  do  hope  you  ain't  discouraged, 
I  do  hope  you've  won  'er  over — I  ain't  ever 
mentioned  the  subjick  to  'er  sence  you  took  up 
the  work — I've  lef  it  all  to  you.  Brother  Jones, 
all  to  your  s'perior  knowledge  an'  judgment." 

"I  feel,  Sister  Tolbert — "  began  the  minister. 

"Mebbe  I'd  orter  told  ye  beforehand,  Brother 
Jones,  how  stubborn  Patience  is.  Our  poor, 
dear  father  was  jes'  so.  Now  Patience  is  no 
more  like  mother  an'  me  than  a  black  sheep's 
like  a  white  one.  I  hope  you  ain't  give  'er  up, 
Brother  Jones." 

"No  sister,  I  haven't  given  her  up — I  never 
give  anybody  up,  but  I  really  feel  a  little  guilty 
in—" 

"Oh,  there  ain't  no  call  fer  ye  to  feel  guilty, 
dear  brother,  I'm  sure  you've  done  yer  best," 


PATIENCE     AND     PRUDENCE  95 

hastily  interposed  Prudence.  ''How  d'ye  think 
it  'ud  do  to  speak  about  it  in  class-meetin',  an' 
hev  the  brothers  an'  sisters  talk  to  'er  reel 
ser'ous  about  it  ?"  The  face  of  the  minister  was 
instantly  suffused  with  an  angry  blush,  but  his 
thorough  and  persistent  schooling  in  self- 
control  came  quickly  to  his  rescue. 

"It  would  never  do,  sister,  it  would  never  do 
at  all.  Your  sister  is  proud  spirited,  and  it 
would  be  sure  to  hurt  her  very  much." 

"But  hurtin'  is  often  the  only  way  to  cure, 
Brother  Jones,  an'  Patience  is — " 

"Do  let  me  explain  to  you.  Sister  Tolbert," 
spiritedly  interrupted  the  minister,  rising  to  his 
feet  and  planting  himself  squarely  in  front  of 
her. 

"I  do  not  wish  to  have  my  position  any 
longer  misunderstood,  and  especially  by  you.  I 
feel  that  I  owe  it  to  you,  sister, — that  you  of 
all  others,  have  a  right  to  know."  Then  there 
followed  an  embarrassing  silence  during  which 
Prudence  drew  herself  up  and  seemed  to  freeze 
stiff  in  her  chair.  Her  purple  lips  paled  and 
she  drew  them  in  quite  out  of  sight,  keeping  her 
black  eyes,  unrelieved  by  a  single  wink,  glued 
to  the  minister's  face.  He  shifted  his  position 
a  little,  ran  his  fingers  round  between  his  throat 
and  collar,  thrust  his  hands  up  to  his  thumbs 


%  PATIENCE     AND    PRUDENCE 

into  his  trousers  pockets,  and  looked  intently 
at  one  of  the  twisted  stripes  in  her  rag  carpet. 
There  was  something  in  his  face  that  awed  her. 
He  was  a  man  of  God,  and  she  knew  it. 

"Sister  Tolbert,"  he  began,  "I  had  fully  made 
up  my  mind,  before  you  invited  me  to  tea  six 
weeks  ago  yesterday,  to  call  upon  your  sister 
and  have  a  talk  with  her,  not  about  her  apparel, 
but  herself.  I  have  admired  Sister  Patience 
ever  since  I  have  known  her,  but  I  must  admit 
that  not  until  the  day  she  wore  the  pink  rose, 
which  so  much  offended  you,  did  I  become  fully 
conscious  of  how  really  pretty  and  sweet  she  is. 
Far  better,  it  appeared  to  me,  to  wear  the 
flowers  God  has  made,  than  the  rag  ones 
most  women  wear.  In  justice  to  myself,  Sister 
Tolbert,  I  must  tell  you  that  I  have  men- 
tioned to  her  at  different  times  the  sinfulness 
of — of — too  much  vanity,  wishing  to  be  true  to 
my  calling  and  your  injunction;  but  to  tell  the 
truth,  I  can  find  no  fault  in  Patience,  Sister 
Tolbert.  I  have  this  evening  asked  her  to  be 
my  wife,  and  I  hope  and  pray  that  God  may 
make  me  more  nearly  worthy  of  her." 

There  was  another  silence  in  which  the  old- 
fashioned  "Seth  Thomas"  clock  ticked  louder 
and  more  slowly.  The  minister  caught  him- 
self  counting   the    tick-tacks    as    they    mowed 


PATIBNCE    AND     PRUDENCE  97 

down  the  seconds.  He  roused  himself  and 
spoke.  Prudence  gave  a  start  as  his  voice  broke 
the  roaring  stillness. 

"I  hope  and  trust  you  will  not  oppose  us, 
Sister  Tolbert.  Give  me  your  hand  and  say 
you  will  not  mar  our  happiness  by  opposition, 
but  that  you  will  give  us  your  prayers  and 
blessing." 

He  took  her  unwilling  hand  in  his.  It  was 
cold  and  stiff.  Her  sallow  face  had  turned 
ashen. 

"I  can't — I  can't  do  it,"  she  gasped  at  last; 
"You  hev  deceived  me,  Brother  Jones,  you  hev 
deceived  me,  an'  Patience  has  deceived  me.  I 
can't  never  fergit  it,  no,  not  as  long  as  I  live." 

"I'm  very  sorry,  Sister  Tolbert,  very  sorry 
indeed,"  and  his  fine  face  did  not  belie  his 
words. 

"I  shall  pray  for  you,  sister,  and  I  hope  that 
you  also  will  pray  for  me,  and — Patience,  and 
that  God  in  his  unerring  wisdom  and  goodness 
may  direct  us  all."  He  held  her  hand  a  moment 
longer  as  if  waiting  for  a  response.  Then  he 
dropped  it,  bade  her  good  night,  and  went 
home. 

Prudence  rose  and  locked  the  door  with  a 
snap  before  her  departing  guest  had  had  time 
to  get  off  the  door-step.     Then  she  took  some 


96  PATIENCE    AND    PRUDENCE 

nails,  went  out  to  the  well  and  nailed  up  the 
gate.  She  hoped  that  Patience  would  hear  and 
understand.  Patience  heard,  understood,  and 
smiled. 

Prudence  went  straight  to  bed  after  she  had 
nailed  up  the  gate,  giving  everything  she 
touched,  even  the  pillows  and  the  log-cabin 
quilt,  spiteful  little  jerks.  She  got  into  bed, 
turned  on  her  side,  closed  her  eyes,  and  tried 
her  best  to  convince  herself  that  she  was  going 
directly  to  sleep — it  was  not  her  fault  if  folks 
would  make  fools  of  themselves.  She  had  fully 
made  up  her  mind  that  she  would  never  again 
go  into  the  church  while  Brother  Jones  oc- 
cupied the  pulpit. 

"How  mad  Patience  will  be  to  find  the  gate 
nailed  up !  I  wonder  if  she's  got  enough  water 
in  the  house  to  git  breakfus'  with." 

The  hours  wore  away,  and  not  until  the  night 
began  to  grow  gray  in  the  east  did  she  fall  into 
a  little  troubled  sleep.  She  dreamed  that 
Patience  was  dying  of  thirst,  and  she  awoke 
sobbing,  with  the  picture  of  her  imagination 
before  her  eyes.  After  a  few  minutes  she  got 
up,  dressed  herself,  and  slipped  cautiously  out 
the  back  door,  taking  the  hammer  and  chisel 
with  her;  then  with  great  care  to  make  no  noise, 
she  pulled  out  the  nails  she  had  driven  into  the 
gate. 


PATIENCE    AND     PRUDENCE  99 

At  no  time  during  the  six  weeks  that  followed 
preceding  the  date  set  for  the  marriage  of  the 
minister  and  Patience,  could  Prudence  be 
induced  to  unbend  even  so  much  as  to  speak 
to  the  prospective  bride,  whose  marriage  she 
felt  to  be  a  crowning  injury,  and  an  insult  to 
an  elder  sister. 

Brother  Jones  called  on  Prudence,  but  she 
would  have  nothing  to  say  to  him.  Her  lips 
seemed  eternally  sealed. 

Patience  wondered  why  she  sat  up  so  late 
nights.  She  could  see  her  light  sometimes  as 
late  as  twelve  o'clock.  Prudence  was  sewing. 
She  was  a  good  seamstress  and  took  much  pride 
in  her  fine  hemstitching  and  embroidery. 

"It's  not  that  I  'prove  of  a  woman  o'  her  age 
an'  perfession  a-marryin',"  she  said  to  herself,  as 
she  hemmed  away  at  the  dainty  rufifle,  "but  a 
woman  had  orter  hev  good  underdose  and 
plenty  of  'em  on  sech  'casions." 

When  she  had  finished  the  two  complete 
suits,  she  washed  them;  but  how  to  get  them 
dry  without  her  sister's  knowledge,  was  a 
puzzle.  It  was  hard  for  Prudence  to  show  any 
slack  in  the  tension  of  her  feelings. 

"If  I  dry  'em  in  the  house  they  won't  look 
nohow — I'll  jest  hev  ter  put  'em  on  the  Hne ;  I'll 
jest  hev  to."     So  she  did,  hanging  sheets  over 


100  PATIENCE    AND    PRUDENCE 

them.  She  ironed  the  two  suits  on  Tuesday 
and  the  task  took  her  all  day;  she  was  so 
particular  about  it.  At  ten  o'clock  she  saw  that 
Patience  had  gone  to  bed.  She  slipped 
cautiouly  out,  and  went  over  to  her  sister's, 
carrying  a  long  white  pasteboard  box  in  her 
arms;  she  raised  the  kitchen  window,  slid  the 
box  through  upon  the  table  and  went  home. 
Patience  found  it  the  next  morning  when  she 
went  into  the  kitchen.  It  was  the  day  before 
the  wedding.  She  knew  to  whom  the  box 
belonged ;  she  had  seen  it  often — Prudence  had 
for  years  kept  bits  of  laces  and  ribbons  in  it. 
She  opened  the  box,  wondering.  On  the  top, 
pinned  to  the  bosom  of  one  of  the  nightgowns 
was  a  note  which  read  as  follows: 

"Dear  Sister  Patience : 

"You  ain't  got  no  mother,  so  I  hev 
made  these  things  fer  you  in  her  place.  I  hev 
prayed  most  all  nite  fer  you  an'  Brother  Jones. 
Mebbe  it's  all  fer  the  best,  you  gettin'  married, 
fer  if  I  should  be  took  away,  you  wode  be  alone 
in  this  cold  world,  an'  I  don't  expect  to  live 
long. 

"Your  Sister,  Prudence." 


PATIENCE    AND    PRUDENCE  101 

Patience  ran  weeping  to  the  door  of  her 
sister's  kitchen ;  it  was  open  and  Prudence  stood 
at  the  table  pouring  out  her  breakfast  coffee. 
She  looked  old  and  worn.  Her  eyes  seemed  to 
have  settled  back  in  her  head,  and  there  were 
deep  blue  circles  under  them.  The  women 
regarded  one  another  a  moment  in  silence,  then 
Patience  broke  into  sobs  and  threw  herself  into 
her  sister's  arms. 

"I — I — do — don't  deserve  such  a  good  sister 
as  you  be,  Prudence,  I — I — don't  deserve  you." 

Prudence  patted  her  on  the  back  a  moment 
as  if  she  were  a  child.  Then  she  turned  to  the 
stove — the  water  in  the  teakettle  was  boiling 
over. 

"Now,  don't  be  a  fool.  Patience  Tolbert.  Set 
down  here  an'  eat  yer  breakfus'.  I  guess  you've 
got  enough  to  do  today  without  cookin',"  and 
as  Prudence  turned  to  take  the  toast  from  the 
oven,  she  furtively  whipped  away  an  offending 
tear  from  the  end  of  her  nose. 

When  the  minister  and  his  wife  returned  from 
their  trip  to  Boston,  they  found  in  the  parson- 
age kitchen,  among  many  other  substantial 
wedding  gifts,  three  bottles  of  sweet  pickles  and 
a  jar  of  raspberry  jam  from  Prudence. 


TRANSPLANTED 


103 


TRANSPLANTED 

"Mahetabel,  come,  yer  breakfas'  is  all  ready 
on  the  table." 

"Mother,  I  wish  you  wouldn't  call  me  by  that 
hateful  name !" 

A  tall,  fair  young  girl  in  a  fresh  pink  calico 
and  white  apron  came  into  the  kitchen  and 
seated  herself  before  the  one  plate  on  the  table. 
"It  makes  me  wish  I'd  never  had  a  grand- 
mother." 

"Well,  you  won't  hev  one  much  longer,  child ; 
Grandma's  eighty-four  year  old  tomorrow. 
What  would  ye  like  to  hev  me  call  ye? 
Mahetabel's  yer  name,  an'  I  don't  like  to  call  ye 
what  ain't  yer  name." 

"Call  me  Hetty;  that's  what  all  the  girls  at 
school  call  me." 

"Well,  mebbe  the  girls  to  school  know  more 
about  it  than  yer  mother  that  named  ye,"  and 
Mrs.  Bryan  rolled  up  the  dish  towels  she  had 
just  sprinkled,  and  set  the  teakettle  on  the  front 
part  of  the  stove. 

105 


106  TRANSPLANTED 

"Mother,  why  don't  you  eat  when  I  do?  Do 
you  know  the  neighbors  are  talking  about  it? 
Mabel  Jones  told  me  yesterday  that  Retta 
Campbell  told  her  that  her  Aunt  Jennie  said 
that  all  that  ailed  you  last  summer  was  that  you 
starved  yourself  so  I  could  outdress  the  other 
girls  and  take  singing  lessons.  I  suppose  she's 
jealous  because  she  can't  learn  to  sing  from  a 
regular  teacher.  The  Joneses  are  as  poor  as 
church  mice,"  and  Mahetabel  tilted  her  thin 
nose  and  gave  her  head  a  sneering  toss  as  she 
spread  her  toast. 

"She  says  she's  taking  lessons  from  her 
mother.  Humph!  Mrs.  Jones  has  about  as 
much  music  in  her  voice  as  an  old  crow." 

"You  shouldn't  oughter  talk  that  way, 
Mahetabel ;  the  poor  woman's  had  a  hard — " 

"I  won't  answer  you,  mother,  if  you  call  me 
Mahetabel,"  and  the  smooth  forehead  gathered 
into  little  puckers  between  the  brows. 

"O  I  forgot,  Mahet — Hetty.  Ye  see  it's 
hard  fer  old  folks  to  change.  It'd  be  pretty 
hard  fer  you  to  turn  round  all  to  once  an'  call 
me  father,  now  wouldn't  it?" 

Hetty  did  not  reply;  she  was  busy  thinking. 

"What  do  you  eat,  mother,  after  I've  eaten? 
I  never  leave  anything  on  the  table.  Now  this 
morning  I've  got  one  piece  of  cheese,  a  boiled 


TRANSPLANTED  107 

egg,  and  three  pieces  of  toast,  and  I  shall  eat 
every  scrap  of  it;  now  what  are  you  going  to 
eat  ?  It  ain't  pleasant  for  me  to  have  the  neigh- 
bors making  such  remarks." 

"No,  Hetty,  it  ain't  pleasant  fer  ye,  I  know 
it  ain't.  I  jest  wish  they'd  'tend  to  their  own 
affairs.  Now  don't  you  worry  a  bit  about  me, 
Mahetabel — Hetty,  I  mean — fer  I  always 
manage  to  have  a  bite  o'  something, — if  it  ain't 
jest  what  you  have.  A  girl  goin'  to  school 
studyin'  hard  needs  more  t'  eat  than  a  body 
that's  stayin'  about  the  house  all  day.  Jennie 
Mason  had  no  call  to  say  anything.  I  mind 
well  the  time  me  an'  Prudence  Tolbert  an' 
Clar'sy  went  visitin'  to  her  house  one  day  on- 
expected  like,  an'  everything  she  had  to  set 
before  us  was  dry  bread,  boiled  beets,  an'  tea, 
an'  it  'pears  to  me  I've  got  jest  as  good  a  right 
to  pinch  myself  if  I  want  to  save  a  little  extry 
as  other  folks  have."  The  stick  of  wood  Mrs. 
Bryan  mechanically  thrust  into  the  stove 
crackled  and  snapped  in  unison  with  her 
feelings. 

The  girl  was  quite  convinced,  when  she  rose 
from  the  table,  tied  on  her  hat  and  started  down 
the  walk  toward  the  gate,  that  she  needed  more 
to  eat  than  her  mother,  and  that  her  mother 
had  a  right  to  starve  herself  if  she  wished. 


108  TRANSPLANTED 

Mrs.  Bryan  watched  her  daughter  from  the 
kitchen  window  until  she  could  see  only  the 
bunch  of  red  poppies  in  her  hat,  bobbing  up  and 
down  over  the  bright  green  hedge.  Then  she 
turned  to  the  table,  set  away  the  cup  of  sugar 
and  the  little  print  of  butter,  drained  the  last 
drop  from  the  coffee  pot  into  her  daughter's 
cup  and  stood  before  the  kitchen  stove  drinking 
it.  Tears  filled  her  eyes  and  she  seemed  to 
swallow  a  lump  with  each  sip  of  coflfee.  When 
she  had  finished,  she  wiped  her  wet  cheeks, 
set  the  cup  in  the  sink  and  began  talking  to  her- 
self— a  habit  she  had  when  alone. 

"Mahetabel  shall  not  go  without  things  for 
my  fault,  not  if  I  can  help  it.  I  s'pose  I  hadn't 
ought  to  'a'  done  it,  but  who  could  let  a  brother 
lose  his  home  for  two  hundred  dollars?  I 
couldn't.  Why,  I  thought  as  much  as  could  be 
he'd  pay  it  back — Dick  was  always  a  good  boy 
— an  awful  good  boy,  but  no  manager.  He 
knew  the  interest  on  that  money  was  all  I  had 
to  live  on,  too,  except  the  four  dollars  a  month 
father  left  me.  Dear  me,  how  comf'table  we 
could  be  if  we  had  that  extry  twenty  dollars  a 
year  as  we  use'  to  hev.  Mahetabel  could  have 
everything  she  needs.  Uncle  John  told  me 
Dick'd  never  pay  it  back,  but  I  felt  sure  he'd  pay 


TRANSPIvANTED  109 

me;  mebbe  he  can't,  poor  feller.  I  guess  he 
would  if  he  could,  an'  mebbe  he  don't  re'lize  how 
I  need  it.  Guess  I'll  write  to  Uncle  John  an'  ask 
him  where  Dick  is ;  I  ain't  had  a  letter  from  him 
fer  purt'  nigh  a  year.  I  hope  he  ain't  dis- 
couraged, er  sick.  Dick's  awful  easy  dis- 
couraged. Poor  Mahetabel !  she  sha'n't  suffer 
for  it,  she  shall  have  her  white  dress  trimmed 
with  embroidery  jest  as  I  promised  her.  I 
dunno  how  I'll  get  it,  though,  unless  I  sell  that 
Chiny  crepe  shawl.  (Prudence  says  Mis'  Porter 
wants  it.)  She  shall  have  enough  t'  eat  too, 
poor  child,  she  ain't  to  blame." 

Mahetabel  Bryan  was  seventeen,  had  always 
had  everything  she  wished,  and  had  never  been 
allowed  to  find  out  from  actual  experience  that 
she  was  a  "poor  child."  It  never  occurred  to 
her  that  she  ought  sometimes  to  help  her 
mother  about  the  work,  and  she  had  never  been 
asked  to  help.  Her  mother  had  always  been  a 
drudge,  her  father  a  farmer,  and  she  the  spoiled 
pet  of  them  both.  The  best  of  everything  had 
always  been  dealt  out  to  the  child  as  if  it  were 
her  due. 

The  neighbors  had  been  greatly  touched  at 
the  girl's  grief,  the  summer  before,  when  Mrs. 
Bryan  lay  very  ill.     Mahetabel  had  cried  her- 


110  TRANSPLANTED 

self  into  hysteria,  moaning — not  "poor  mother, 
how  she  is  suffering;"  but,  "what  will  become 
of  me  if  mother  dies." 

No  girl  in  Pepperton  dressed  better  than 
Hetty  Bryan.  Her  mother  did  all  her  sewing, 
and  spared  herself  no  pains  in  ruffles,  tucks,  hand 
embroideries  and  flounces. 

Hetty  was  a  handsome  girl,  tall  and  slender, 
with  clear,  fair  complexion,  hazel  eyes  and 
bright  auburn  curls  that  lay  in  pretty  confusion 
over  her  back  and  shoulders.  She  was  a  merci- 
less coquette  and  was  never  quite  so  happy  as 
when  wresting  from  some  other  girl  a  devoted 
lover,  and  neglect  of  her  studies  on  account  of 
these  intrigues  constantly  made  her  fall  behind 
in  her  classes.  She  was  not  a  general  favorite 
with  the  girls  of  the  village,  and  the  secrets  con- 
fided to  her  were  mostly  disagreeable  things 
about  herself  which  they  had  "heard."  To  all 
such  information  she  would  give  her  head  an 
independent  toss  and  say  she  didn't  care :  this 
was  perfectly  true. 

With  very  young  men  and  boys  she  was  a 
favorite,  for  no  one  could  deny  her  beauty, 
grace  and  fascinating  manner.  She  had  a 
dominating  spirit,  to  which  most  of  her 
associates  yielded  unconsciously.  There  was 
not  a  boy  in  the  village  school  who  would  not 


TRANSPLANTED  111 

go  out  of  his  way  to  serve  Hetty  Bryan  just  for 
the  pleasure  of  seeing  her  smile.  She  had 
learned  her  power  early,  and  had  used  it  to  the 
utmost.  She  labored  under  the  delusion  that 
all  the  good  things  of  the  world  were  meant 
for  her.  For  any  other  girl  to  have  an  admirer 
she  felt  to  be  an  affront  to  her  powers  of  con- 
quest and  at  once  set  herself  to  work  to  adjust 
things.  Whether  she  liked  or  disliked  the 
young  man  in  question  made  not  the  slightest 
difference  in  her  siege  for  his  affections ;  and, 
to  make  matters  worse,  she  had  never  yet  failed 
to  accomplish  her  purpose.  She  had  the  rare 
quality  of  being  able  to  drop  her  friends  and 
pick  them  up  according  to  her  whim,  without 
being  required  to  give  any  account  of  it. 

Mrs.  Bryan  sat  on  a  stool  in  front  of  the 
kitchen  stove,  her  elbow  on  her  knee  and  her 
forefinger  buried  in  her  cheek ;  she  was  deep  in 
thought. 

"Yes,  that's  jest  how  it  come  out.  It  come 
over  me  all  in  a  minute.  Lijy  ust  to  say  I  was 
the  worst  woman  he  ever  see  to  find  out  things. 
Why,  I  could  tell  the  minute  that  man  came  in 
the  house — the  minute  I  set  eyes  on  him — when 
he'd  been  into  mischief,  an'  he  was  up  to  enough 
of  it,  poor  Lijy.  'Twa'n't  that  he  acted  different ; 
he  didn't;  it  was  jest  as  if  some  one  had  tole 


112  TRANSPLANTED 

me, — I  was  that  sure  of  it.  He'd  explain  an' 
explain  an'  sometimes  I'd  pertend  I  believed 
him  jest  to  make  him  feel  easy,  but  I  knew  all 
the  time  I  was  right.  Lijy  was  too  good  look- 
in',  there  was  the  trouble,  he  was  too  good 
lookin'.  The  women  somehow  always  found  it 
out.  He  had  wonderful  handsome  eyes,  Lijy 
had ;  an'  Mahetabel's  is  jest  like  'em, 

"When  she  was  little.  Mis'  Barnes  the  poet 
use'  to  say:  'How  much  your  little  daughter 
favors  her  father,  Mis'  Bryan,'  an'  then  she'd 
pick  her  up  an'  hug  and  kiss  her — she  took 
pizen  the  day  Lijy  an'  me  was  married,  but  she 
didn't  take  enough."  There  was  a  cessation 
in  the  monologue  while  Mrs.  Bryan  poked  the 
fire  into  an  angry  blaze. 

"An'  once  when  we  was  down  to  Hackman's 
bush  to  a  sugarin'  off,  she  said  (Lijy  had  jest 
handed  her  a  sasser  o'  snow)  'Mis'  Bryan,  I 
don't  see  how  you  can  keep  your  eyes  oflf  'm 
your  husband,  there's  somethin'  so  appealin'  in 
his  face  an'  manner.'  I  told  her  I  could  take 
my  eyes  ofT'm  him,  but  I  didn't  s'pose  I'd  ort  to, 
an'  as  to  his  manner  I  was  glad  he  had  better 
manners  'n  some  folks  I  knew.  I  jes'  thought 
I'd  give  her  a  hint.  The  hussy!  she  made  me 
a  lot  o'  trouble  while  she  lived;  but  she's  dead 
now,  poor  thing.     It  worries  me  a  little  some- 


TRANSPLANTED  113 

times  to  think  they're  up  there  together," — 
Mrs.  Bryan  rose  and  again  poked  the  blazing 
fire  vigorously — "but  the  Lord  '11  take  care  o' 
my  interest,  I  don't  need  to  worry,  the  Lord  '11 
take  care.  Lijy  was  a  good  man,  an  awful  good 
man,  but  I — do — hope — Mahetabel  won't — be — 
Dear  me,  I  must  make  the  buttonholes  in  them 
piller  cases  b'fore  I  f  git  it !" 

As  she  passed  through  the  little  sitting-room 
she  stopped  before  a  portrait  of  her  dead  hus- 
band that  hung  in  a  large  oval  frame  made  of 
shells.  She  gazed  at  it  with  a  look  of  anxious 
love,  her  hands  tightly  clasped  on  her  breast. 

"I  do  wonder  if  they're  in  the  same  spear — 
they  say  they's  a  good  many  of  'em.  I  hope 
the  Lord'll  manage  some  way  to  put  'em  in 
different  spears — but  laws  a  me !  I  don't  need  to 
worry." 

As  she  settled  herself  in  her  low  rocker  by 
the  window  her  mind  reverted  to  the  gossip  of 
her  neighbors. 

"Yes,"  she  repeated,  "I  know  jest  precisely 
how  it  got  out."  The  sewing  and  her  hands 
dropped  together  in  her  lap. 

"Las'  summer,  when  I  was  jes'  gettin'  over 
my  sick  spell,  Mahetabel,  poor  child,  was  clean 
tuckered  out  with  worryin',  so  I  sent  her  over 
to  her  grandma's  to  rest  up  a  week,  an'  when 


114  TRANSPLANTED 

there  warn't  no  one  here  to  cook  fer  but  me,  I 
felt  so  weak  an'  gone  like  that  I  didn't  cook 
much ;  I  felt  as  if  I'd  ruther  go  without.  On  the 
Friday  b'fore  Mahetabel  come  home,  Em'ly 
Tucker  come  over  an'  insisted  on  makin'  me  a 
cup  o'  tea.  I  didn't  want  her  to,  'cause  I  knew 
they  wa'n't  a  thing  t'  eat  in  that  butt'ry  but 
some  dry  bread  and  cold  potatoes.  But  she 
would  go,  an'  in  about  five  minutes  she  come 
back  in  an'  said  she  couldn't  make  the  fire  burn ; 
so  she'd  go  home  an'  make  it  on  her  own  stove. 
I  knew  very  well  'twas  b'cause  she  couldn't  find 
nothin'  t'  eat,  but  I  didn't  let  on — what  could  I 
say?  Laws  a  massy!  I  was  never  so  mortified 
in  all  my  life.  In  about  an  hour  here  she  comes 
with  a  great  platter  full  o'  fried  chicken, 
mashed  potato,  slaw,  an'  a  pot  o'  tea.  I  didn't 
reely  know  how  hungry  I  was  till  I  got  a  smell 
o'  that  fried  chicken.  I  commenced  eatin' — 
ruther  mincin'  like,  for  I  had  told  her  when  she 
offered  to  make  the  tea  for  me  that  I  hadn't 
much  appetite;  but  I  couldn't  hold  out  long 
after  I'd  got  a  taste,  an'  I  never  stopped  till  I'd 
et  every  scrap  on  that  platter.  It  scart  me 
after  I'd  finished  to  think  how  much  I'd  et.  I 
was  sorry  I  hadn't  left  some.  Em'ly  said  she 
was  sorry  she  hadn't  brought  more.  Em'ly's 
a  good  girl,  but  she  will  talk  an'   everybody 


TRANSPI^ANTED  115 

knows  it.  Yes,  that's  jest  how  it  got  out,  an' 
they've  gone  an'  blamed  that  poor  innocent 
child.  Now  let  me  see."  Mrs.  Bryan  half 
closed  her  eyes  and  gazed  out  of  the  window. 

"Em'ly  said  she'd  stop  in  tomorrow  after- 
noon, on  her  way  down  to  Burnham's,  to  look 
at  Mahetabel's  pink  lawn;  she  wants  to  make 
one  like  it  for  Mattie  Burnham  that's  goin'  to 
marry  that  young  Blake  feller."  Then  Mrs. 
Bryan  picked  up  her  work  and  made  two  button- 
holes without  speaking  a  word,  during  which 
time  she  solved  a  problem  and  determined  upon 
a  line  of  action. 

It  was  one  o'clock  when  the  pillow  cases  were 
finished.  Mrs.  Bryan  went  out  into  the  kitchen, 
and  into  the  buttery.  A  fresh  egg  lay  in  a 
saucer;  she  took  it  in  her  hand  and  stroked  it 
thoughtfully.  "No,  I  must  use  this  for  the 
cookies,"  she  said.  And  laying  it  back  in  the 
saucer,  she  put  on  her  green  slat  sunbonnet 
and  walked  slowly  toward  the  barn.  She  was 
not  an  old  woman,  only  forty-five;  but  she 
looked  older.  Her  shoulders  were  bent,  her 
face  had  a  pinched  look,  and  her  thin  hps  had 
in  them  no  tint  of  pink.  Her  sharp  shoulder 
blades  showed  through  her  thin  brown  calico. 
Her  dress  was  short  and  she  flipped  up  the  hem 
with  her  heels  as  she  walked. 


116  TRANSPLANTED 

She  got  down  on  her  knees  and  looked  in  the 
nest  under  the  manger.  She  thought  she  saw 
an  egg.  She  got  down  flat  on  her  face  and  ran 
her  arm  through  between  the  boards  to  get  it ; 
but  it  was  only  a  white  feather.  Then  she 
climbed  up  the  ladder  to  the  old  hay  loft,  and 
crawled  through  the  little  square  hole  cut  in  the 
floor;  but  there  were  no  eggs  up  there.  She 
backed  through  the  hole  and  down  the  ladder, 
feeling  her  way  carefully. 

"I  guess  I'll  go  an'  fry  me  a  piece  o'  that  nice 
side  pork.  That'll  be  a  good  deal  better  fer  me 
than  an  egg." 

The  next  morning  she  was  up  bright  and 
early.  Mahetabel  had  just  seated  herself  at  the 
breakfast  table. 

''Why  mother,  what  made  you  get  breakfast 
so  early?     It's  half  an  hour  earlier  than  usual." 

"I  know  it's  a  little  earlier,  but  I've  got  a 
good  deal  to  do  today."  Mrs.  Bryan  was 
wiping  the  toast  crumbs  ofif  the  bright  kitchen 
stove. 

"Mother,  I  *wish  you'd  boil  an  egg  hard  an' 
put  in  my  dinner  basket.  I  wish  you'd  always 
put  in  a  hard  boiled  egg  when  there  ain't  any 
cold  meat  for  my  dinner — Mother!  did  you 
hear?     I  said — " 

"Yes,  Mahetabel,  you  can  have  one  jes'  as 


TRANSPLANTED  117 

well  as  not,"  and  she  poured  some  boiling  water 
from  the  teakettle  into  a  basin  on  the  stove  and 
dropped  the  only  egg  into  it. 

"Mother,  don't  call  me  Mahetabel.  I  won't 
answer  when  you  do.  I  wish  you'd  cut  another 
slice  o'  bread.  I  want  just  enough  to  finish  this 
little  piece  o'  honey." 

"O,  my  dear  child,  what  shall  I  do?  There 
ain't  another  scrap  o'  bread  in  the  house — I'm 
jest  goin'  to  bake — I — but  let  me  bake  ye  a 
pancake,  Mahetabel — Hetty  I  mean,  I  can  have 
one  baked  in  five  minutes." 

"No,  I  can't  wait;  I  shall  have  to  run  now, 
I've  got  to  go  to  the  store  and  get  a  new  copy 
book  b'fore  school  begins." 

Hetty  rather  enjoyed  the  discomfiture  of  her 
mother,  for  she  thought  there  was  no  reason 
why  there  should  not  always  be  plenty  of  bread. 
It  was,  in  her  opinion,  poor  management.  She 
rose  pettishly,  threw  her  napkin  down  in  a  heap 
on  the  table,  took  the  last  swallow  of  her  coffee 
standing  beside  her  chair,  then  with  her  full  red 
lips  in  a  pout,  she  tied  on  her  hat  and  started 
to  school. 

Mrs.  Bryan  wiped  her  eyes  as  she  watched 
her  daughter  from  the  kitchen  window.  Hetty's 
thin  white  apron  strings  were  flapping  in  the 
wind,  and  she  had  to  hold  her  hat  on  as  she 


118  TRANSPLANTED 

turned  the  corner,  "Poor  child,  she's  hungry. 
She  ain't  to  blame  for  bein'  cross.  I'll  make  a 
roll  or  two  when  I  bake  the  bread  an'  take  it  to 
school  for  her.  I  must  pitch  into  the  work 
now;  I've  got  a  sight  to  do  this  forenoon." 

Mrs.  Bryan  built  a  good  fire,  then  put  on  her 
sunbonnet  and  went  out  to  the  barn.  Two 
speckled  hens  moved  indifferently  out  of  her 
path  as  she  walked  along. 

"I  never  see  hens  with  such  red  combs  that 
didn't  lay.  I  can't  'count  fer  it  nohow.  I 
s'pose  the  cookies'll  look  all  right,  but  they 
won't  taste  good  made  without  eggs,  an'  I  want 
her  to  eat  one  jes'  to  show  her  we  don't  starve 
all  the  time  if  we  be  a  little  short  now  an'  then. 
O  dear !  there  ain't  an  egg  in  this  nest,  not  one. 
What  shall  I  do?  I  guess  I'll  run  over  to 
Prudence's  an'  see  if  I  can't  borrow — Oh !  Oh ! 
Laws  a  massy,  how  that  hen  scart  me!" 
screamed  Mrs.  Bryan,  jumping  and  shaking  her 
skirts  as  an  equally  terrified  hen,  cackling 
frantically,  flew  out  from  somewhere  beneath 
her  petticoats. 

"That  hen's  got  a  nest  here  somewhere," 
gasped  the  woman,  "she  wouldn't  make  all  that 
fuss  fer  nothin' ;  an'  it  ain't  fur  away,  nuther. 
Dear  me,  how  she  did  scare  me !" 

The  discovery  of  two  new  nests  containing 


TRANSPLANTED  119 

fifteen  eggs  was  the  reward  Mrs.  Bryan  reaped 
for  her  search.  She  carried  them  in  her  apron 
and  laid  them  away  with  the  caressing  touch  of 
a  miser. 

"Thirteen,  an'  two  left  in  the  nests.  They'll 
lay  more,  of  course.  I'll  fry  one  an'  eat  it.  I 
shall  feel  more  like  work.  An  egg's  a  good 
deal  better  fer  me  than  pork.  Salt  pork  ain't 
very  good  anyway,  after  it's  two  year  old." 

At  eleven  o'clock  the  kitchen  floor  had  been 
scrubbed  as  white  as  soap,  sand,  water  and  hard 
work  could  make  it.  A  hot  dried  currant  pie 
steamed  on  the  table  beside  two  loaves  of 
bread,  some  rolls  and  a  pan  of  cookies. 

Mrs.  Bryan's  face  was  very  red  when  she 
hung  up  her  kitchen  apron  and  sat  down  a 
minute  to  rest.  She  looked  at  the  things  on 
the  table  with  a  smile  of  satisfaction.  "I  guess 
Em'ly  '11  be  surprised  when  she  sees  what's  on 
that  table.  Starvin',  humph!  we'll  show  'em 
't  we  ain't  starvin'.  I  hope  the  cookies  are  sweet 
enough;  I  didn't  dare  use  any  more  sugar,  for 
there  ain't  only  a  teacupful  left  for  Mahetabel's 
coflfee,  an'  I  can't  get  any  more  till  the  four 
dollars  comes.  Dear,  I  hope  I  ain't  robbed 
Mahetabel's  coffee.  If  I  hadn't  found  them 
eggs  what  would  I  'a'  done?  How  good  the 
Lord  is  to  them  that  has  faith.     I  never  got  into 


120  TRANSPLANTED 

a  tight  place  in  my  life  that  I  wasn't  helped  out 
of  it  some  way  onexpected.  Well,  I  must  go 
right  ofif  if  I  git  there  b'fore  school  lets  out  fer 
noon." 

She  brushed  back  her  hair,  put  on  her  church 
dress  and  bonnet,  with  its  faded  spray  of  purple 
flowers,  and  a  clean  starched  white  apron.  Mrs. 
Bryan  was  never  seen  about  the  village,  except- 
ing on  Sundays,  without  a  clean,  white  apron, 
and  it  was  only  in  compliance  with  the  wishes 
of  Mahetabel  (who  had  observed  that  no  one 
else  wore  them)  that  she  had  left  off  wearing 
them  to  meeting.  As  a  compromise  she  wore 
on  Sundays,  over  her  rusty  alpaca,  an  apron 
of  black  silk  trimmed  across  the  bottom  with 
two  rows  of  black  velvet  ribbon. 

It  was  a  half  mile  to  the  schoolhouse  and  the 
roads  were  very  dusty.  She  hurried  along  so 
as  to  get  there  before  school  was  dismissed, 
because  she  did  not  wish  the  scholars  to  know 
of  her  errand,  lest  they  blame  Mahetabel.  She 
handed  the  little  parcel  containing  a  warm  roll 
and  two  cookies  to  the  janitor  who  stood  in 
the  door.  She  carried  a  large  parcel  under  her 
shawl.  She  had  walked  fast  and  drops  of  sweat 
were  coursing  down  her  face  and  neck. 

"Jes'  ban'  it  to  her  quiet  like,  Mr.  Jameson, 
jes'  say  somebody  left  it  for  her — ye  needn't 


TRANSPIvANTED  121 

tell  who  'twas.  Mahetabel  wouldn't  like  it  if 
she  knew  I'd  come  so  far — jes'  to — "  Then,  as  a 
bulwark  to  protect  her  child,  the  most  innocent 
of  lies  sprang  to  her  lips,  lending  a  momentary- 
false  dignity — "but  I  was  jest  goin'  by  to  the 
postofifice,  an'  it  wa'n't  no  trouble." 

The  janitor  took  the  parcel,  searching  the 
face  grown  old  in  middle  age  for  traces  of  the 
girlish  beauty  of  twenty  years  before  when  he 
had  sued  in  vain  for  her  love.  But  this  is 
another  story. 

"I  didn't  know  you  was  janitor  here,  Mr. 
Jameson."  The  rest  of  the  sentence — "if  I  had 
I  wouldn't  have  come" — was  left  unsaid.  "Ye 
see  Mahetabel  never  mentioned  it." 

"I  jest  come  over  to  relieve  Henry  for  a  few 
days,  Jane,  he's  clean  done  up  an'  I  didn't  want 
to  see  him  lose  his  job — he  can't  afford  to,  with 
his  five  Httle  children  an'  a  sick  wife  on  his 
hands.  So  I  swapped  places  with  him  for  a 
few  days — it's  easy  work  round  the  greenhouse 
— he'll  jest  have  to  see  to  things,  I  got  a  man  to 
do  all  the  hard  work." 

"It's  awful  good  in  ye,  Joshua.  Mahetabel 
tol'  me  Henry  was  enjoyin'  poor  health."  Jane 
put  her  fingers  over  her  mouth  and  coughed  a 
little,  strained,  company  cough. 

"You're    lookin'    pretty    well,    Jane,"    said 


122  TRANSPLANTED 

Joshua,  thinking  at  the  moment  how  old  and 
worn  she  looked.  Jane  cleared  her  throat  and 
colored. 

"I'm  in  hopes  we're  goin'  to  git  rain  purty 
soon,"  he  continued,  "it's  dretful  dry,  ain't  it?" 
and  to  relieve  his  own  embarrassment  Joshua 
looked  inquiringly  up  at  the  sky.  Mrs.  Bryan 
looked  up  too,  but  there  was  not  a  cloud  to  be 
seen. 

"I  guess  I'd  better  be  goin',  Joshua;  it  might 
rain  b'fore  I  git  home." 

"O  no,  'twon't,  Jane,  set  down  an'  rest  a  spell. 
You  look  clean  tuckered  out." 

"No,  thank  ye,  Joshua,  I  mus'  be  goin'." 

Just  as  Mrs.  Bryan  turned  to  go  down  the 
steps  the  doors  of  the  lower  rooms  burst  open 
and  the  schoolhouse  belched  forth  a  howling, 
shrieking,  scuffling  mob  of  boys,  such  as  can 
be  found  nowhere  on  earth  but  at  the  "letting 
out"  of  a  public  school.  Just  as  Mrs.  Bryan 
was  about  to  pass  through  the  gateway,  a  small 
piece  of  brick  struck  her  between  the  shoulders. 
There  was  a  snort  of  laughter  followed  by  a 
boy's  unearthly  yell,  cut  short  into  a  gurgling 
sound. 

"Don't  don't,  Joshua,  you're  a-chokin'  of 
him.  You  didn't  go  to  do  it,  did  ye  sonny? 
Why  it's  Teddy  Blodgett,  poor  child." 


TRANSPIvANTED  123 

"I — I — I — "  gasped  the  boy,  with  a  very  red 
face,  for  Joshua  had  him  by  the  collar — "I — I — 
I—" 

"Ye  didn't  go  to  do  it,  did  ye,  Teddy?"  said 
Mrs.  Bryan  bending  over  him  in  a  motherly 
fashion. 

"Joe  Mason  t— t— tol'  me — " 

"What  did  ye  throw  at  the  lady  for,  ye  little 
red-headed  devil?"  questioned  Joshua,  giving 
his  prisoner  a  backward  jerk. 

"I— I— I—" 

"Stop  yer  bawlin',"  roared  Joshua,  "an'  tell 
what  ye  did  it  for.     Ye  ain't  hurt." 

The  boy  was  yelling  with  fright,  boring  with 
his  dirty  fists  into  his  wet  eyes,  and  the  half 
masticated  bite  of  apple  he  had  snatched  from  a 
little  girl  was  rolling  down  his  wide  open 
mouth  over  his  dirt-glazed  coat  front. 

"What  did  ye  say  about  Joe  Mason,  Ted? 
He  put  ye  up  to  it,  did  he  ?" 

"Huh?"  questioned  the  boy  looking  up  into 
Joshua's  face  with  round  eyes  that  looked  like 
blue  buttons. 

"He  told  ye  to  do  it,  did  he?"  With  a  hope 
of  being  able  to  fix  the  blame  on  some  one  else 
by  turning  state's  evidence,  the  boy  immediately 
ceased  crying,  and  with  an  affirmative  jerk  of 
his  head,  "Yes,  he  did,  he — he  tol'  me  to  do  it," 


124  TRANSPLANTED 

said  the  culprit  in  a  jerky  voice  sticking  out  his 
thick  lips.  "He — he's  mad  at  Mis'  Bryan 
'cause  Hetty  mittened  his  brother  Sam  las'  Sun- 
day, an'  he  tol'  me  to  hit  her — he — he — gimme 
the  piece  o'  brick." 

"I'll  tend  to  Joe  Mason,  Jane,  he's  big  enough 
to  know  better,"  said  Joshua,  releasing  the  boy, 
who  was  glad  to  be  free  from  the  big  hand  at 
the  back  of  his  neck.  Teddy  lost  no  time  in 
assuring  the  crowd  of  boys  that  stood  about 
with  pocketed  hands  and  interested  faces,  "that 
he  wasn't  afraid  of  old  Josh  Jameson,  nohow, 
and  that  he  didn't  hurt  him  a  bit ;  he  didn't  dast." 
The  boys  turned  away  in  disgust  that  an  affair 
which  at  first  had  promised  so  much  excitement 
should  end  so  tamely.  They  went  away  behind 
the  schoolhouse  and  discussed  it,  each  boy  tell- 
ing of  all  the  daring  things  he  would  have  done 
if  he  had  been  in  Teddy's  place,  keeping  the 
while  a  good  sharp  lookout  on  the  corner  of 
the  schoolhouse  lest  his  courage  be  put  to  a 
test  by  the  sudden  appearance  of  the  giant 
Joshua. 

"I  s'pose  I  must  go  on  down  to  the  postoffice 
now  to  bolster  up  that  lie  I  told,"  whispered 
Jane  to  herself.  "Dear  me!  I  hope  Joshua 
didn't  hurt  the  poor  little  feller." 

"No,  there's  no  letter  for  you,  Mrs.  Bryan, 


TRANSPLANTED  12S 

not  that  I  know  of — lemme  see — just  wait  a 
minute.  Kate !  is  there  a  letter  here  for  Mrs. 
Jane  Bryan?     Look  careful." 

"O,  don't  go  to  so  much  trouble,  Mr.  Smith, 
I— I  don't  s'pose— " 

"O,  it's  no  trouble,  Mrs.  Bryan,  that's  what 
we're  here  for,  to  serve  the  people.  Which 
way  did  you  expect  yer  letter  from,  Mrs.  Bryan, 
East  or  West?  Ye  see  there's  a  mail  in  from 
the  East  in  half  an  hour,  and  it  might  be  your 
letter's  on  that  train ;  if  you're  in  no  particular 
hurry  you  can  just  step  right  in  the  ofiEice  here 
and  take  a  seat  and  wait  till  it  comes." 

Mrs.  Bryan  drummed  nervously  on  the 
counter  with  her  fingers  while  the  postmaster 
gazed  at  her  through  the  little  square  window. 
He  felt  sorry  for  her,  she  looked  so  worried. 
Mrs.  Bryan  was  tempted  to  run  out  of  the  post- 
office  without  another  word,  but  she  felt  nailed 
to  the  floor.  She  moved  about  a  little  that  he 
might  not  see  how  she  was  trembling. 

"I — I  wa'n't  sure  I'd  git  a  letter,  Mr.  Smith," 
she  stammered,  picking  at  the  fringe  of  her 
shawl,  "but  I  thought  there  might  be  one,  an' 
—an'—" 

"Did  you  expect  your  letter  from  the  East, 
Mrs.  Bryan,  or  from  the  West?" 

"From — from  the  West,  I  think,"  gasped  the 


126  TRANSPIvANTED 

woman  in  desperation;  her  tongue  was  grow- 
ing stiff  in  her  dry  throat.  "O  dear!  mother 
always  ust  to  say  a  He  couldn't  stan'  alone  but 
always  had  to  have  two  or  three  of  its  kind  to 
prop  it  up,"  thought  Jane  as  she  shifted  from 
one  foot  to  the  other.  "O,  I  wish  I  was  out  o' 
here,  I  had  ort  to  'a'  knowed  better." 

"Here  'tis,  father,  here's  Mrs.  Bryan's  letter. 
It  came  from  the  West  five  days  ago,  but  no- 
body's called  for  it." 

Jane  Bryan  gasped  and  put  her  hand  to  her 
throat ;  she  could  not  conceal  her  astonishment. 
"It's  a  mistake — I  guess  it  ain't  fer  me,  Mr. 
Smith;  it — it  can't  be  for  me,"  taking  a  step 
backward,  "it — it  can't  be." 

"Why,  yes  'tis."  Mr.  Smith  adjusted  his 
glasses  and  held  the  letter  up  to  a  level  with  his 
eyes.  "Yes  'tis,  if  your  name's  Jane  Katherine 
Bryan,  it's  for  you.  There's  no  other  Jane 
Bryan  in  Pepperton  that  I  know  of."  Mr.  Smith 
had  a  way  of  holding  his  head  very  high  and 
looking  at  people  from  under  his  glasses. 

"Yes,  that's  me."  Jane  took  the  letter,  thrust 
it  into  her  pocket  and  hurried  away,  feeling  as 
if  she  had  committed  a  theft.  On  the  second 
street  from  the  postofiftce  there  was  a  large 
white  house  with  green  window  blinds.  It  was 
the  largest  house  in  Pepperton.     Mrs.   Bryan 


TRANSPLANTED  127 

walked  up  the  steps  of  this,  to  her,  palatial  home 
with  a  feeling  of  trepidation.  A  little  black-and- 
tan  dog  lying  on  the  door-mat  barked  threaten- 
ingly as  she  approached  the  door,  showing  his 
little  teeth  gleaming  white  between  his  black 
lips. 

"Why  come  right  in,  Mrs.  Bryan,  I  hope  the 
dog  didn't  scare  ye.  Go  'way,  Tipsy;  go  'way, 
you  rascal."  The  dog  dropped  down  resting 
his  head  on  his  fore  paws  and  blinked  know- 
ingly. He  did  not  go  away;  he  knew  the 
command  would  not  be  enforced. 

"You  look  tired,  Mrs.  Bryan,  sit  down  in  this 
rocker,  it's  real  easy." 

The  visitor  glanced  at  the  delicate  silk 
upholstery  and  stood  hesitating. 

"I'm  afraid  that's  a  little  low  fer  me,  Mis' 
Porter,  ye  see  I'm  taller  'n  you  be,"  and  she 
seated  herself  in  a  still  lower  chair  with  a  leather 
cushion. 

"I  brought  over  that  black  Chiny  crepe  shawl. 
Mis'  Porter;  Prudence  Tolbert  tol'  me  you 
wanted  it,  an — an — reely  I  hain't  no  use  fer  it; 
it's  too  good  fer  the  rest  o'  my  things — 
Prudence  said  you'd  give  me  six  dollars  fer  it. 
Mis'  Porter." 

"Yes,  I  told  Miss  Tolbert  I'd  take  the  shawl 
if  you  wanted  to  sell  it  for  six  dollars." 


128  TRANSPI^ANTED 

"Yes,  I'll  take  six  dollars  fer  it,  Mis'  Porter, 
an'  here  'tis;  I  brought  it  over." 

Mrs.  Porter  moved  uneasily,  cleared  her 
throat  hard  and  brushed  an  imaginary  speck 
from  her  bosom,  which  enormous  bulk  was 
crowded  up  into  a  comfortable  shelf  for  her 
pink  double  chin.  Her  heavy  blonde  hair  hung 
in  a  loose  knot  at  the  nape  of  her  neck.  Her 
voice  was  low  and  she  had  a  purring  way  of 
drawing  out  and  blending  her  words  which  was 
emphasized  when  she  had  anything  disagreeable 
to  say.  She  had  beautiful  teeth  and  a  chronic 
smile.  Mrs.  Bryan  sat  gazing  at  her  in  silent 
admiration. 

"Really  now,  Mrs.  Bryan,  don't  you  think  six 
dollars  a  little  too  much  for  it?"  asked  Mrs. 
Porter  with  a  coaxing  tone  and  a  little  more 
smile,  exactly  as  if  she  were  trying  to  persuade 
her  guest  to  have  another  lump  of  sugar  in  her 
tea. 

"I  don't  need  it  you  see,  Mrs.  Bryan,  it's  just 
a  fancy  of  mine,"  and  she  toyed  with  the  gold 
heart-slide  on  her  watch  chain. 

"Well,  mebbe  'tis — mebbe  six  dollars  is  too 
much.  Mis'  Porter — I  dunno  but  'tis." 

"What  did  it  cost  new,  Mrs.  Bryan  ?" 

"Thirty  dollars.  My  mother's  brother 
brought  it  all  the  way  home  from  Chiny  an' 


TRANSPI^ANTED  129 

give  it  to  mother  fer  a  weddin'  present,  an'  it's 
never  been  on  the  back  but  jes'  three  times, 
and  them  big  embroidery  chrysantheums  in  the 
corners  must  'a'  been  a  sight  o'  work;  but 
mebbe  six  dollars  is  too  much — the  Lord  knows 
I  don't  want  too  much,"  and  Mrs.  Bryan  silently 
congratulated  herself  on  her  narrow  escape 
from  the  sin  of  taking  more  than  her  just  due. 
''What  would  you  think  about  right,  Mis' 
Porter?" 

"Well,  I  should  be  willing  to  give  five  dollars. 
It's  a  nice  shawl." 

"Very  well,  you  may  have  it."  Mrs.  Bryan's 
knees  trembled  when  she  walked  down  the 
steps.  The  rich  woman's  voice  was  very 
musical  when  she  said,  "Good  afternoon." 
Then  the  heavy  door  slammed. 

With  her  five  dollar  bill  tied  up  tightly  in 
a  corner  of  her  handkerchief  Jane  went  to  the 
store  and  bought  Mahetabel's  white  dress  with 
embroidery  to  trim,  and  hurried  home  over  the 
dusty  road. 

"O  dear,  how  tired  I  be !    I'm  all  of  a  trimble ; 

an'  how  my  legs  do  ache.     I  hope  Em'ly  ain't 

been  here ;  I'm  later  'n  I  meant  to  be,"  said  she, 

as,  laying  her  parcel  with  her  bonnet  and  shawl 

on  a  chair,  she  sat  down  to  rest.     "Now  I've 

got  this  money  I  can  git  a  little  more  sugar 
I 


130  TRANSPLANTED 

when  I  hev  to;  sugar's  gone  up  a  cent  an'  a 
half."  Mrs.  Bryan  stroked  her  thin  cheeks 
reflectively.  "I  b'lieve  I'll  stop  usin'  sugar 
myself;  they  say  it's  apt  to  bring  on  rheumatiz 
in  ole  folks,  an'  I  should  hate  dretful  to  git  the 
rheumatiz ;  none  o'  my  folks  ever  hed  it.  What 
if  Em'ly  should  come  to  the  front  door?  dear 
me,  what  if  she  should?  She  usually  comes  to 
the  back  door.  I  must  make  her  come  in  the 
back  way  now;  how  can  I  manage  it?" 

She  was  silent  for  a  few  minutes,  then  she 
rose,  locked  the  front  door,  put  the  key  under 
the  Bible  on  the  table  and  went  out  into  the 
kitchen.  She  felt  faint  and  hungry ;  the  cookies 
looked  tempting;  she  took  one,  went  back  into 
the  sitting-room  and  sat  down  to  eat  it. 

"I  don't  like  the  feelin',  somehow,  of  havin' 
that  key  under  the  Bible."  She  rose  and  slipped 
it  under  Hetty's  old  grammar. 

"For  massy  sakes  alive!  I  forgot  all  about 
that  letter!  I  wonder  if  it  is  fer  me."  She 
laid  her  cooky  with  one  bite  out  of  it  on  the 
window  sill,  then  opened  and  read  her  letter.  It 
was  from  her  Uncle  John  and  contained  the 
news  that  her  brother  Dick  had  sold  his  home, 
taken  the  money  and  gone,  some  thought  to 
New  Zealand,  no  one  knew  where.  Uncle  John 
was  very  sorry  for  Jane  and  hoped  she  would 


TRANSPI^ANTED  131 

not  suffer  for  the  want  of  the  money;  but  he 
could  not  refrain  from  reminding  her  every  now 
and  then  that  he  had  told  her  just  how  it  would 
be, — that  Dick  was  a  rascal  and  always  had 
been. 

"Uncle  John  always  was  down  on  Dick," 
murmured  Jane,  "because  he  don't  git  around 
somehow  to  pay  his  debts.  Dick  has  alius  been 
in  debt  an'  I  guess  he  alius  w411  be,  poor  feller ! 
he  don't  seem  to  know  how  to  git  along.  I 
thought  when  I  opened  the  letter  that  jest  as 
like  as  not  it  was  from  Dick  with  the  money  in 
it.  How  glad  I  would  'a'  been.  Gone  to  New 
Zealand !"  said  Jane,  folding  the  letter  slowly, 
"I  guess  that  mus'  be  a  long  ways  off.  I  must 
ask  Hetty  where  'tis.  I'll  write  to  Uncle  John 
this  very  week  an'  tell  him  I'm  gettin'  along  fust 
rate  without  the  money,  fust  rate ;  an'  I  shall  tell 
him  't  I  ain't  a  mite  afraid  but  what  Dick  '11  pay 
me  jes'  as  quick  as  he  can.  If  he  ever  does  pay 
me,  I'm  goin'  to  try  to  buy  that  crepe  shawl 
back.  How  I  did  hate  to  let  it  go.  I  guess  I 
can  buy  it  back — Why,  yes,  Mis'  Porter'U  let 
me  have  it  back,  I  most  know  she  will,  she's 
sech  a  nice  woman.  Mis'  Porter  is.  She's  dret- 
ful  sympathizin'.  She  always  cries  so  when  she 
goes  to  funerals ;  jest  like  one  o'  the  mourners. 
She  never  misses  goin'  to  a  funeral." 


132  TRANSPLANTED 

"Hello,  have  ye  got  comp'ny,  or  talkin'  to 
yerself  as  usual?"  and  Emily  Tucker  with  her 
fat,  freckled  face,  sandy  hair  and  eyes  to  match, 
looked  in  at  the  open  window. 

"Why,  how  di  do,  Em'ly  ?  No,  I  ain't  got  no 
comp'ny,  come  right  in — jest  step  round  to  the 
back  door,  the  front  door's  locked." 

"Why  can't  ye  unlock  it?  I  hate  to  go  past 
them  rose  bushes,  they  tag  my  dress  so." 

"Why — the  front  door's  locked  an' — "  Mrs. 
Bryan  bustled  about  looking  eagerly  for  the 
key;  she  felt  in  her  pocket, looked  on  the  mantel 
and  on  the  floor,  "an' — I  can't — that  is  I  don't 
see  the  key  nowheres,  Em'ly.  I  guess  you'll 
hev  to  come  in  the  kitchen  door." 

Emily  thrust  her  head  in  at  the  window. 

"Why,  I  see  it,  Jane;  it's  right  under  that 
book  on  the  table." 

Mrs.  Bryan  lifted  up  the  Bible. 

"No,  the  other  one,  with  the  gingham  cover."' 

"Why,  yes,  here  'tis." 

"What  ye  been  buyin',  Jane?  More  clothes 
for  Mahetabel?  I'll  guarantee  it  ain't  anything 
for  yerself." 

"Oh,  I  don't  go  out  much,"  said  Mrs.  Bryan, 
flushing,  as  she  turned  a  low  wooden  rocker  for 
her  visitor,  "an'  I've  been  promisin'  Mahetabel 
a  new  white  dress  this  long  while,  an'  I  thought 
I  might  as  well  git  it  an'  be  makin'  of  it." 


TRANSPIyANTED  133 

"  'Pears  to  me  you  need  a  new  dress  yersdf, 
Jane.  I  was  noticin'  last  Sunday  how  fady  your 
alpaccy  is  in  front." 

"  'Tis  a  little  fady  in  front,  but  I'm  goin'  to 
turn  it  an'  put  the  back  breadths  in  front." 

"As  long  as  you're  going  to  rip  it  up  you 
might  as  well  turn  it  wrong  side  out.  Liza 
Pepper  turned  hers  and  it  looks  most  as  good  as 
new." 

"Well,  ye  see  Em'ly" — and  Mrs.  Bryan  moved 
uneasily,  resting  her  cheek  on  her  forefinger — 
"I  did  turn  it  three  year  ago,  when  Patience 
Tolbert  was  married.  I  fixed  it  all  over  new 
then.  It'll  look  pretty  well  when  I  put  the 
back  breadths  in  front." 

"But  what  about  the  front  width?  have  ye 
got  enough  without  that?" 

"O  no,  it  wouldn't  be  wide  enough;  I'm  goin' 
to  put  that  in  the  back." 

"You  like  to  look  well  in  front,  don't  ye, 
Jane?  Most  folks  do.  Now  I'd  ruther — dear 
me,  what's  that  noise,  Jane?  Some  one's 
comin'  up  to  the  kitchen  door.  Mebbe  it's  a 
peddler." 

"Mebbe  'tis,  Em'ly,  mebbe  'tis." 

Now  if  Emily  Tucker  had  a  weakness  it  was 
for  peddlers.  She  loved  to  look  through  their 
trays,  and  was  not  satisfied  until  she  had  priced 
and  handled  every  article  they  contained.     To 


134  TRANSPIvANTED 

her  credit  let  it  be  said  that  she  never  turned 
one  away  without  buying  something. 

"Would  you  mind  goin'  to  the  door,  Em'ly, 
while  I  set  the  chairs  back  an'  put  away  my 
bunnit  and  shawl?" 

Em'ly  came  back  with  a  disappointed  look  on 
her  face — it  was  only  the  hens  on  the  door-step. 
They  had  tipped  over  a  pail  of  ashes. 

"I  see  you've  been  bakin',  Jane.  How  nice 
your  bread  an'  cookies  do  look." 

"Yes,  I  baked  a  little  this  mornin'  b'fore  I 
went  to  the  store.  Take  off  yer  bunnit,  Em'ly, 
an'  I'll  make  a  cup  o'  tea  an'  we'll  have  a  bite." 

Emily  was  in  a  hurry, — she  had  said  so;  but 
eating  was  another  of  her  weak  points.  She 
never  refused  an  invitation  to  eat. 

"I  reely  ought  to  be  goin',  Jane,"  she  pro- 
tested weakly,  at  the  same  time  laying  aside 
her  bonnet,  which  was  trimmed  in  front  with 
three  short  black  ostrich  tips  that  stubbornly 
refused  either  to  bend  or  to  curl. 

"It  won't  take  more  'n  ten  minutes  to  make 
some  tea,  Em'ly;  you  can  be  lookin'  over 
Mahetabel's  pink  dress  while  I  set  the  table. 
It's  right  there  in  the  clothes  press." 

Mrs.  Bryan  set  the  table  with  care,  putting 
on  her  best  china  and  fine  napkins.  She  felt, 
knowing  the  weakness  of  her  guest,  that  she 


TRANSPLANTED  135 

was  preparing  tea  for  the  whole  of  Pepperton. 
"Folks  shall  know  we're  not  starvin',  even  if  we 
be  a  little  short  now  and  then,"  said  Jane  to 
herself  as  she  opened  her  last  glass  of  currant 
jam  and  drew  the  tea. 

"How  nice  your  cookies  be,  Jane.  Cookies 
is  most  always  too  sweet  fer  me,  these  is  jest 
right,"  said  Emily,  as  they  rose  from  the  table. 

"Here,  you  take  this  plate  full  home  with  ye, 
Em'ly,"  said  Jane,  pinning  a  clean  napkin 
around  a  plate  of  cookies. 

"O  no,  Jane,  it  '11  be  robbin'  you." 

"Why,  no  'twon't,  guess  I  kin  make  more, 
can't  I  ?  There's  more  where  these  come  from. 
You  take  'em  right  along,  Em'ly." 

"Thank  ye,  Jane;  but  dear  me,  I  must  eat 
and  run  like  the  beggars !  Good-by." 

"Good-by,  Em'ly,  come  over  agin,  won't  ye  ?" 

"Yes,  I  will ;  you  come  over  real  soon,  Jane." 

"Yes,  I  will,  good-by." 

Four  years  had  gone  by.  Mahetabel  Bryan 
was  about  to  be  married  to  Oscar  Wadham,  the 
son  of  the  junior  member  of  the  firm  of 
"Wade  &  Wadham"  of  Glenwood.  The  father 
of  Oscar,  wishing  to  start  his  son  in  business, 
had  promised,  after  six  months'  trial,  to  give 
him  on  his  wedding-day  a  half  interest  in  the 


136  TRANSPLANTED 

retail  grocery  store  in  Pepperton.  The  result 
of  the  half  year's  trial  had  been  most  satis- 
factory. 

Mrs.  Bryan's  means  were  nearly  exhausted, 
but  it  did  not  trouble  her  so  much  now,  for  she 
knew  that  she  alone  could  live  on  next  to  noth- 
ing ;  she  was  used  to  it.  With  her  little  vegeta- 
ble garden  and  her  twenty  hens  she  could,  she 
felt  sure,  keep  the  wolf  from  the  door. 

Jane  had  grown  much  thinner  and  older.  The 
four  years  just  passed  had  bent  her  form  and 
sapped  her  blood.  Her  yellow-white  hair  was 
combed  smoothly  back  and  twisted  into  a  Httle 
hard  knot.  She  sat  in  her  low  chair  by  the 
window,  nervously  clasping  and  unclasping  her 
thin  fingers.  There  was  a  troubled  look  on  her 
face.  Her  daughter,  grown  handsomer,  sat 
before  her  rocking  violently.  The  chestnut 
curls  were  done  up  now  in  loose,  wavy  coils, 
leaving  the  smooth,  white  neck  exposed.  The 
beautiful  face  was  disfigured  by  a  frown. 

"I  don't  see  any  sense,  mother,  in  your  acting 
so  about  this  old  shell  of  a  house  and  the 
rubbishy  furniture.  You  gave  me  the  place,  and 
I  have  a  deed  of  it ;  now  if  Oscar  and  I  are  will- 
ing to  give  you  a  room  in  our  new  house  where 
you'll  be  perfectly  comfortable,  I  don't  see  why 
you  cling  to  this.     It  ought  to  be  split  up  for 


TRANSPLANTED  137 

kindling  wood,  along  with  all  the  furniture  in 
it.     I  hate  the  old  thing." 

"Yes,  Hetty,  I  did  give  ye  the  place  b'cause 
I  didn't  like  to  have  ye  go  to  your  husband  with 
empty  hands,  and,  as  you  say,  you  have  the 
papers  an'  can  do  jest  as  you  please  with  the 
old  house  in  spite  o'  me;  but  you  know  I  tol' 
you  at  the  time,  that  I  wanted  to  keep  the  house 
as  long  as  I  lived.  It's  awful  good  in  you  an' 
Oscar,  Hetty,  to  offer  me  a  room  in  your  new 
house,  but  somehow — I  can't  tell  how  'tis — I 
like  the  old  things  best.  I  shouldn't  feel  to 
home  with  new  furniture."  A  tear  trickled 
down  and  trembled  on  the  mother's  chin,  but 
she  wiped  it  off  quickly.     Hetty  did  not  see  it. 

"Well  then,  if  you  won't  let  it  be  torn  down, 
it'll  have  to  be  moved  back  between  the  corner 
of  the  fence  and  the  woodshed.  Oscar  says  he 
won't  build  here  unless  the  old  house  can  be 
either  torn  down  or  moved  back,  and  if  we 
have  to  buy  elsewhere  to  build  on,  it  will  take 
so  much  money  for  the  ground  that  we  shall  not 
be  able  to  have  much  of  a  house.  If  we  don't 
have  to  pay  out  for  the  lots,  we  can  have  the 
nicest  house  in  Pepperton  and  the  best 
furnished,  too,  except  the  Porter's.  Think  how 
unreasonable  you  are,  mother;  how  you  want 
to  spoil  everything  just  for  a  whim.     I  never 


138  TRANSPLANTED 

knew  you  to  be  so  selfish.  Seems  to  me  you 
don't  regard  my  happiness  at  all,  you  just  think 
of  yourself." 

Mrs.  Bryan  was  startled;  she  grasped  the 
arms  of  her  chair  and  sat  up  straight.  Her  thin 
cheeks  flushed  and  there  was  a  pained  look  in 
her  face. 

"Why,  Hetty,  I — I  didn't  know  I  was  selfish, 
I  didn't  know  it,  but  mebbe  I  be — the  Lord 
knows.  He  knows  all  hearts,  Hetty,  an'  if 
they's  anything  selfish  in  mine,  I  hope  He'll 
take  it  all  out.  I'm  glad  you  tol'  me,  child,  I 
guess  I  be  selfish.  I  want  you  to  have  a  nice 
home,  Hetty,  jest  the  one  you've  set  your  heart 
on,  so  you  an'  Oscar  can  go  on  an'  build  yer 
new  house  an'  move  the  old  one  back  in  the 
corner;  an'  I'll  live  in  it  jest  as  I  do  now  an' 
hev  my  own  things  that  I'm  use'  to.  I  know  I 
couldn't  never  learn  t'  eat  with  silver  forks, 
Hetty,  an'  they  ain't  no  use  in  tryin'."  Then 
she  turned  her  head  and  looked  out  of  the 
window  toward  the  hills. 

"Do  you  think  I  could  keep  the  hens,  Hetty  ? 
Do  you  think  Oscar'd  care  if  I  kep'  'em?  It 
wouldn't  seem  Hke  home  to  me  without  the 
hens." 

"Why  of  course  you  can  keep  the  hens, 
mother,   but   they'll   have   to  be   shut   up,    an' 


TRANSPLANTED  139 

there's  too  many  for  that  Httle  yard;  you'd 
better  sell  half  of  'em  or  more." 

"Very  well,  Hetty,  I'll  try  an'  git  along  with 
ten.  I  guess  that'll  be  as  many  as  I  can  afford 
to  keep  b'cause  I  shall  have  to  buy  feed  fer  'em 
if  they're  shet  up."  Mrs.  Bryan  reflected  a  few 
moments  in  uneasy  silence  while  Hetty's  mind 
was  delving  into  the  future. 

"Will  they  hev  to  be  shet  up  all  the  time, 
Hetty?" 

"What,  mother,  the  hens?" 

"Yes." 

"Why,  of  course.  Mrs.  Porter  always  keeps 
hers  shut  up;  you  can't  have  anything  of  a 
decent  yard  with  hens  running  over  it. 

"I  told  Oscar  I  didn't  think  you'd  be  un- 
reasonable, mother,  about  moving  the  house ; 
it  won't  look  bad  at  all  back  there  in  the  corner 
b'cause  it's  painted  red  like  the  barn,  and  it'll 
look  just  like  a  part  of  it." 

"My  front  door'll  come  up  pretty  close  to  the 
woodshed,  won't  it,  Hetty?" 

"Yes,  but  there'll  be  plenty  of  room  to  open 
the  door;  Oscar  meiasured  it." 

"I  can't  see  the  road  from  the  front  door  can 
I?  nor  the  hills  from  the  kitchen  winder." 

"You  can  if  you  go  out  on  the  steps,  there's 
nothing  in  the  road  to  see,  anyway ;  it's  a  good 


140  TRANSPIvANTED 

deal  pleasanter  looking  over  towards  the 
grove." 

"No,  no,  there  ain't  much  to  see  in  the  road," 
hesitatingly  replied  the  mother;  "but  I  always 
did  like  to  see  when  folks  go  by,  or  when  any- 
body's comin'.  I  s'pose  it's  foolish,  an'  mebbe 
it's  selfish  too — I  dunno  but  'tis.  I  don't  need 
to  see  the  road,  an'  when  I  want  to,  I  can  go 
out  of  doors."  There  was  silence  for  a  few 
moments,  broken  only  by  an  occasional  rattle 
of  the  loose  windows.  Mrs.  Bryan  drummed 
softly  on  the  chair  arm  with  her  fingers.  She 
was  trying  to  imagine  how  it  would  seem  to 
have  the  front  door  face  north  instead  of  west ; 
to  look  from  her  favorite  window  into  the  barn- 
yard, and  to  have  no  roses  to  shed  their 
fragrance  about  her  kitchen  door. 

"My  settin'-room  winder'll  open  on  the  barn- 
yard, won't  it,  Hetty?"  To  be  snatched  from 
her  towering  castles  in  the  air  to  the  barn-yard, 
caused  a  frown  to  flit  over  the  fair,  young  face. 
The  mother  saw  and  hastened  to  dispel  it. 

"It'll  be  comp'ny  fer  me  to  watch  the  hens, 
an'  I  can  see  to  'em  better  to  be  right  there  by 
*em."  She  wanted  to  ask  Hetty  about  the  rose 
bushes,  but  she  was  afraid  of  offending  her,  and 
she  had  become  so  thoroughly  convinced  of  her 


TRANSPLrANTED  141 

own  innate  selfishness,  that  she  had  firmly  re- 
solved to  root  it  out  at  any  cost.  Consequently, 
she  decided  to  crucify  self  by  saying  nothing 
about  having  the  rose  bushes  dug  up  and  trans- 
planted beside  her  kitchen  door.  No  doubt, 
Hetty  loved  them  as  well  as  she,  and  the  place 
was  hers ;  she  ought  to  have  them  if  she  wanted 
them,  and  it  would  be  mean  and  selfish  to  ask 
for  them, 

Hetty  walked  out  into  the  kitchen  and  seated 
herself  by  the  window.  She  wished  to  visit 
undisturbed  her  castles  in  Spain. 

"I  wonder  what  Lijy  'd  think  of  all  this," 
murmured  Jane,  as  she  gazed  into  the  blue  of 
the  distant  hills  she  had  learned  to  love  so  well. 
"  'Pears  to  me  I  ain't  never  missed  him  so  much 
since  he  passed  over.  Poor  Lijy!  He  built 
this  house  with  his  own  hands  when  we  was 
first  married,  an'  he  made  some  o'  the  furniture 
too.  He  made  the  kitchen  table,  an'  the  sink, 
an'  the  wash  bench,  an'  the  clothes  chest,  an' 
he  put  a  new  rocker  on  this  very  chair  I'm  a 
settin'  in.  It  got  broke  off  when  we  moved. 
One  o'  the  men — 'twas  Jake  Rice,  he's  dead 
now,  poor  feller — set  the  chair  down  close  to 
the  wagon  wheel,  when  they  was  unloadin'  right 
in  front  the  door,  an'  the  horses  backed  a  httle. 


142  TRANSPLANTED 

an'  the  wheel  run  right  on  to  that  rocker  an' 
broke  it  square  off.  'Twas  all  the  rockin'  chair 
we  had."  She  leaned  over  to  one  side  and 
looked  at  the  rocker  that  had  never  been 
painted.  The  rest  of  the  chair  was  brown,  but 
on  the  seat  and  arms  the  paint  was  nearly  worn 
off.  The  unpainted  rocker  was  longer  than  the 
other  one. 

"I  told  Lijy,  jest  as  soon  as  he'd  got  it  done, 
that  'twas  too  long.  I  remember  jest  how  he 
looked  when  I  tol'  him — he  hadn't  noticed  it — 
I  can  see  him  yet  with  the  color  creepin'  over 
his  cheeks,  and  when  I  saw  how  it  plagued  him, 
I  said,  'Oh,  never  mind,  Lijy,  nobody  '11  ever 
notice  it ;'  an'  he  said,  'no,  nobody  '11  ever  notice 
it,  Jane,'  then  he  kissed  me  an'  we  went  out  to 
supper — I  had  supper  all  ready.  We  had  warm 
biscuits  an'  honey  that  night — I  remember  jest 
how  that  honey  tasted,  an'  how  Lijy  did  praise 
my  biscuits.  After  supper  Lijy  put  away  his 
tools — they  was  all  new  then  an'  he  was  dretful 
choice  of  'em.  He  hung  the  saw,  bright  as  a 
new  dollar,  up  behind  the  kitchen  stove  so  it 
wouldn't  rust.  I  remember  I  thought  at  the 
time  how  smart  Lijy  was.  I  never  would  'a' 
thought  of  hangin'  a  saw  behind  a  kitchen  stove 
to  keep  it  bright.     He  hung  a  coat  over  it,  one 


TRANSPLANTED  143 

he  didn't  wear  much,  an'  when  he  took  down 
the  saw  to  use  it  a  week  or  two  later,  it  was  red 
with  rust.  Neither  of  us  thought  of  the  steam 
from  the  teakettle.  Young  folks  has  lots  to 
learn  when  they  start  a  new  home. 

"We  use'  to  have  a  good  deal  o'  comp'ny  in 
them  days,  an'  everybody  noticed  the  new 
rocker  to  the  chair,  an'  most  everybody  spoke 
about  its  bein'  too  long.  We  admitted  that 
'twas,  and  Lijy,  with  a  side  wink  at  me,  would 
always  say,  'yes,  'tis  a  leetle  too  long,  but  it'll 
never  be  noticed,'  and  they'd  all  agree  with  him. 

"After  they'd  gone  home  Lijy'd  laugh  and 
say  to  me,  sez  he,  'Jane,  it's  easy  to  lead  folks 
if  ye've  only  got  tack.'  I  don't  jest  know  what 
tack  is,  but  Lijy  did.  Dear  me,  I  shall  never 
forgit  the  day  Mahetabel  was  born,  right  there 
in  that  little  bedroom.  I  never  see  a  man  so 
tickled  in  all  my  life  as  Lijy  was.  He  jest  hung 
over  me  and  kissed  me  an'  kissed — " 

"Mother,  ain't  we  going  to  have  any  supper 
to  night?     It's  six  o'clock." 

"Why,  for  massy  sakes  alive!  if  I  didn't 
forgit  all  about  your  supper,  Mahetabel,"  and 
Mrs.  Bryan  bustled  about  the  kitchen  putting 
the  teakettle  on  the  cold  stove  and  then  spread- 
ing the  table-cloth. 


144  TRANSPLANTED 

"Mother,  do  you  talk  all  the  time  when 
there's  no  one  in  the  house  but  yourself?  Who 
do  you  talk  to  ?" 

"I  don't  know  I'm  reely  talkin',  Mahetabel, 
it  seems  as  if  I  jest  think  out  loud.  Was  I 
talkin'  jes'  now?" 

"Yes.  You  just  called  me  Mahetabel, 
mother;  what  made  you?  I  thought  you'd  for- 
gotten it." 

"Why — ye  see — Hetty,  I  was  jest  thinkin' 
about  when  ye  was  little,  an'  yer  pa  was  alive, 
an'  you  was  Mahetabel  then." 

"Well,  mother!"  said  Hetty  breaking  into  a 
merry  laugh,  "when  do  you  expect  that  water 
to  boil?     You  haven't  lit  the  fire." 

"Well,  I  dew  declare!"  said  Mrs.  Bryan 
striking  a  match  on  a  griddle.  "I  dunno  what 
ails  me  lately;  I  jest  get  to  thinkin,'  and  clean 
forgit  where  I  be." 

Hetty  had  gained  her  point ;  she  could  afford 
to  laugh.  She  sat  gazing  out  of  the  window 
without  speaking  until  the  teakettle  began  to 
hum  and  sing;  she  was  wandering  through  her 
castle  halls.  Mrs.  Bryan  was  slicing  some  cold 
boiled  potatoes  into  some  hot  melted  butter  that 
was  sputtering  in  a  frying-pan  on  the  stove. 

"We  shall  have  next  to  the  nicest  house  in 
Pepperton,  mother,  and  the  very  nicest  yard. 


TRANSPLANTED  145 

We  shall  have  the  house  built  near  the  corner, 
so  as  to  have  most  of  the  yard  on  one  side,  like 
Judge  Brown's  house  in  Glenwood.  I'm  going 
to  have  all  those  rose  bushes  dug  up  and  have  a 
design  in  old  hen  and  chickens  in  the  front  yard, 
and  all  the  rest  just  smooth  green  grass  like 
Judge  Brown's."  A  thrill  of  gladness  went 
through  the  mother's  heart,  for  which  she 
immediately  upbraided  herself,  choking  down 
an  exclamation  of  delight.  She  silently 
ejaculated  "Oh,  how  selfish  I  be !  I  won't  ask 
for  'em,  I  won't  unless  I  find  she  don't  want 
'em."  With  her  mind  on  the  rose  bushes,  the 
rest  of  Hetty's  remark  was  a  little  vague. 

"I  think  you're  reel  sensible,  Hetty,  in  decid- 
in'  to  let  the  hens  and  chickens  run  in  the  front 
yard,  it  makes  a  place  look  so  much  more  home- 
like to  see  hens  about,  an'  they  do  love  to  peck 
at  the  green  grass.  They  lay  better,  too,  when 
they're  not  shut  up.  I'm  reel  glad  you've 
changed  yer  mind.  Now  Prudence  Tolbert's 
got  thirty  hens — an' — why  what  be  you  laughin' 
at,  Hetty?  Don't,  child,  it'll  make  ye  sick. 
You'll  go  off  into  hysterics  sure's  the  world. 
Your  Aunt  Clar'sy  did  once,  jest  from  laughin' ; 
she  couldn't  stop  when  she  wanted  to." 

Mahetabel  wiped  her  eyes.  She  rarely  gave 
way    to    fits    of    laughter,    but    the    days    of 


146  TRANSPLANTED 

controversy  about  moving  the  house  had  made 
her  a  Httle  nervous ;  her  mother  had  never  been 
so  stubborn,  so  unyielding. 

"I'm  not  going  to  turn  the  hens  loose  in  the 
front  yard,  mother,  they'd  spoil  everything. 
You  didn't  understand.  There's  a  plant  called 
*old  hen  and  chickens.'  I'm  going  to  have  a 
figure  made  of  it,  some  such  as  we  saw  in  the 
park  at  Glenwood.  Don't  you  remember  those 
stars  an'  anchors  an'  things?" 

Mrs.  Bryan  flushed  and  poked  the  fire  with- 
out replying;  the  kitchen  stove  had  always 
stood  a  dumb  sponsor  for  all  her  mistakes  and 
mortifications. 

The  long  New  England  winter  had  melted 
away  under  the  wooing  breath  of  spring,  and 
Pepperton  had  blossomed  into  a  bower  of 
lilacs  and  fruit  flowers.  The  woods  were  damp 
with  recent  rains,  and  the  air  was  sweet  with 
the  odor  of  violets. 

Mahetabel  and  her  young  husband  had 
moved  into  their  new  house,  which  had  turned 
out  to  be  the  largest  as  well  as  the  handsomest 
in  the  village.  The  second  story  rooms,  with 
the  exception  of  the  windows,  were  unfurnished, 
as  the  increased  size  of  the  house  and  numerous 


TRANSPLANTED  147 

exterior  decorations — not  counted  upon  in  the 
original  plan — had  encroached  seriously  upon 
the  funds  set  aside  for  furniture;  but  with  lace 
curtains  and  shades  at  every  window  the  home 
was  complete,  to  all  external  appearances.  The 
house  was  built  with  two  wings  and  painted 
white  with  bright  green  window  blinds  and  a 
red  brick  foundation.  Four  lightning  rods  with 
burnished  points,  glass  balls  and  gleaming 
arrows  flashed  in  the  sunlight.  A  gardener 
from  Glenwopd  was  preparing  a  mound,  where 
the  rose  bushes  had  stood,  to  be  decorated  with 
"old  hen  and  chickens." 

The  little  red  house  had  been  moved  into  a 
back  corner  of  the  yard.  Mrs.  Bryan  was  busy 
setting  out  the  rose  bushes  beside  her  kitchen 
door.  She  had  just  returned  after  an  absence 
of  three  days ;  her  mother  had  died  suddenly  "of 
old  age,"  and  she  had  been  to  the  funeral. 
While  she  was  away  the  gardener  had  dug  up 
the  rose  bushes  and  thrown  them  out  back  of 
the  barn. 

"I'm  afraid  they  won't  live,  Em'ly,"  said  Mrs. 
Bryan,  as  she  patted  the  dirt  down  about  the 
roots  with  her  old,  brown  hands.  "Ye  see  the 
gard'ner  didn't  know  they  was  to  be  trans- 
planted an'  he's  cut  the  roots  most  all  off,  then 


148  TRANSPLANTED 

they've  been  layin'  out  there  in  the  hot  sun  an*^ 
wind  till  it  'pears  like  they're  mos'  dead.  I 
shell  give  'em  plenty  o'  water  an'  mebbe — " 

"Why  didn't  Hetty  see  to  it  ?"  and  there  was 
an  unpleasant  ring  in  Em'ly's  voice.  Mrs. 
Bryan  noticed  it  and  replied  quickly: 

"Oh,  Hetty  didn't  know  it;  she  was  busy 
fixin'  her  pictures  up ;  she  was  dretful  sorry.  I 
do  hope  I  can  make  this  yellow  one  live.  It  was 
lyijy's  favorite ;  he  planted  it  with  his  own  hands 
when  it  wa'n't  more  than  three  inches  long." 

"You  can't  git  your  kitchen  door  open,  can 
you,  Jane?  The  house  is  too  close  in  the 
corner.     What  a  shame !" 

"No,  I  can't  open  the  kitchen  door  but  jest  a 
leetle  ways — it  hits  the  fence;  but  I  can  open 
the  front  door  ye  see,  Em'Iy;  there's  plenty 
o'  room  t'  open  the  front  door,"  and  Mrs.  Bryan 
smiled  so  radiantly  that  Emily  felt  for  the 
moment  to  chide  herself  for  not  having  properly 
appreciated  the  privilege  of  being  able  to  open 
her  own  front  door. 

"Well,  I  must  go,  Jane,  good-by,  I  hope  yer 
rose  bushes  '11  live." 

"Good-by,  Em'ly,  come  over  again.  How 
happy  that  child  is  with  her  new  house;  it 
jes'  tickles  me  to  see  her,"  said  Mrs.  Bryan  as 
she  seated  herself  on  a  tilting  wooden  box  that 


TRANSPIyANTED  149 

served  her  as  a  front  door-step;  the  old  steps 
having  fallen  to  pieces  v^^hen  the  men  pried  them 
up  to  move  the  house.  "I've  seen  her  at  that 
parlor  winder  three  times  today  a  loopin'  up 
that  lace  curtain  an'  there  she's  at  it  agin.  I  do 
hope  it'll  last, — sometimes  it  don't ;"  and  Jane's 
head  sank  slowly  over  to  one  side  till  her  cheek 
rested  on  the  end  of  her  forefinger,  "Oscar's 
mos'  too  good  lookin' — I  wish  he  wa'n't  quite 
so  good  lookin' — Lijy  was  good  lookin',  too, 
poor  Lijy.  Joshua  Jameson  was  a  good,  clever 
feller,  but  he  wa'n't  nothin'  like  so  good  lookin' 
as  Lijy. 

"Dear  me  suz,  how  I  wish  I  could  open  that 
kitchen  door!  I  wonder  if  I  couldn't  hev  a 
little  winder  cut  in  it  so  I  could  see  the  hills. 
Me  'n'  Lijy  walked  all  the  way  to  them  hills  the 
fus'  Sunday  after  we  was  married.  I  wouldn't 
b'lieve  they  was  three  mile  away,  but  they  be. 
I  said  I  knew  't  I  c'd  walk  tew  'em  in  ten  min- 
utes. Dear  me  suz !  How  Lijy  did  laugh  at 
me  that  day !     I  kin  mos'  see  him  yet." 

The  long,  hot  summer  was  past  and  Mrs. 
Oscar  Wadham's  beautiful  mound,  the  envy 
of  all  Pepperton,  lay  under  a  blanket  of  snow. 
A  thin,  lazy  column  of  blue  smoke  rose  from  the 
little  red  house  in .  the  corner,  and  an  uneven 


ISO  TRANSPLANTED 

fringe  of  icicles  hung  from  the  low  roof.  The 
old  woman  sat  beside  the  kitchen  stove  sewing 
some  braided  rags  into  a  floor  mat.  She  was 
just  finishing  it  off.  It  was  to  be  a  Christmas 
present  for  her  daughter. 

"  'Tain't  anything  very  nice — 'tain't  good 
'nough  to  put  in  the  house,  but  she  can  lay  it 
on  the  side  porch  to  wipe  feet  on ;  it'll  save  her 
new  bristle  carpet,  an'  then  if  they's  a  good  mat 
to  wipe  feet  on,  mebbe  she  won't  hev  to  keep 
newspaper  spread  down  in  front  of  all  the  chairs. 
A  carpet  don't  look  as  if  'twas  made  to  walk 
on  that's  got  bunches  o'  roses  an'  vi'lets  scat- 
tered all  over  it. 

"I  dunno  what  to  do  about  tearin'  up  this  ole 
red  shawl.  It'd  make  sech  a  pretty  stripe  to 
finish  off  with.  It's  full  o'  little  holes,"  and  she 
held  it  up  toward  the  window  and  looked  at  it. 
"Yes,  it's  awful  full  o'  little  holes,  an'  the  fringe 
is  purt'  nigh  all  wore  off.  Lijy  use'  ter — like  it. 
Dear  me  suz!  I  dunno  what  to  do  about  it." 
She  held  it  up  to  the  light  again.  "It's  all  full 
o'  holes,  an'  it'll  make  sech  a  pretty  finishin'  off 
stripe."  She  picked  up  the  shears  with  a  deter- 
mined air,  clipped  the  shawl  and  tore  off  a  strip, 
clipped  again.  But  just  as  she  was  about  to 
tear  off  the  second  strip,  the  heavy  plaster  in 


TRANSPLANTED  151 

the  ceiling,  that  had  been  loosened  when  the 
house  was  moved  and  had  hung  for  weeks  in  a 
threatening  bulge,  fell  with  a  crash,  striking 
the  old  woman  senseless  to  the  floor. 

Two  days  and  nights  she  lay  in  an  uncon- 
scious stupor,  during  which  time  Mahetabel 
never  left  her  side,  either  to  eat  or  sleep.  She 
was  heart-broken. 

"You  mustn't  cry  so,  Hetty,  you'll  make  yer- 
self  sick." 

"I  can't  help  it,  Aunt  Em'ly,  you  don't  know. 
Nobody  knows  how  careless  I've  been  with 
mother,"  Mahetabel's  eyes  were  swollen  with 
weeping  and  loss  of  sleep. 

"If  she  gets  well" — a  great  sob  choked  the 
young  woman's  utterance — "will  she  get  well. 
Aunt  Em'ly  ?  If  she  gets  well,  I  shall  move  the 
old  house  back  just  where  it  was  before — where 
the  mound  is — I  don't  want  a  mound — I  don't 
care  how  it  looks — I'll  turn  the  hens  loose,  too." 

By  the  doctor's  orders,  Mahetabel  was  finally 
forced  to  her  own  room,  where  she  lay  moaning 
in  troubled  sleep  and  muttering  broken  words 
of  self  condemnation  during  the  entire  night. 

Mrs.  Bryan's  bed  had  been  moved  out  into 
the  sitting-room,  the  bedroom  was  too  small, 
where  she  lay  facing  the  kitchen  door.     Her 


152  TRANSPI.ANTED 

sister,  Clarissa  Carley,  had  come  to  take  care 
of  her.  It  was  almost  daylight.  Clarissa  had 
just  blown  out  the  candle  and  set  it  away. 

Mrs.  Bryan  opened  her  eyes,  looked  up 
rationally  and  whispered ;  Clarissa  bent  low  over 
her. 

"What  is  it,  Jane?"  Clarissa  was  trembling. 
She  hoped  her  sister  would  not  wake  up  "out 
of  her  head ;"  nothing  terrified  the  nervous  little 
woman  more  than  delirium.  She  thought  it  a 
sure  sign  of  approaching  death. 

"Sh— h— h !  don't  talk  so  loud,  Clar'sy,  you'll 
wake  the  baby." 

Clarissa  looked  puzzled  and  before  she  had 
time  to  collect  her  thoughts  asked  "what  baby?" 

Jane  gave  a  little  sneer. 

"How  silly  you  be,  Clar'sy,  why,  my  baby,  of 
course — Mahetabel.  She  was  moanin'  all  night 
an'  I  want  ye  to  let  her  sleep  jest  as  long  as  she 
will.  I  had  a  bad  dream  las'  night,  Clar'sy,  I 
thought — is  they  anything  the  matter  with  me, 
Clar'sy?     My  head  feels  queer;  be  I  sick?" 

"You  ain't  very  well,  Jane." 

"I  thought  I  wa'n't,  my  head  feels  queer — 
dretful  queer."  Then  she  closed  her  eyes  as  if 
she  were  going  to  sleep. 

"Clar'sy!"     The  sister  returned  to  the  bed. 

"What  is  it,  Jane?" 


TRANSPI^ANTED  153 

"Is  the  house  turned  round?" 

"No,  the  house's  all  right,  Jane ;  see  if  ye  can't 
sleep  a  Httle."  Clarissa  was  anxious  to  put  a 
stop  to  the  questions. 

"No,  Clar'sy,  I  don't  want  to  sleep.  I  have 
sech  bad  dreams.  Every  time  I  go  to  sleep,  I 
dream  the  house  was  washed  away  by  a  flood, 
an'  it  lodged  up  in  the  corner  o'  the  fence  so  I 
couldn't  open  the  kitchen  door ;  but  the  kitchen 
door's  wide  open,  ain't  it  ?  I  can  see  right  out  o' 
doors.  How  nice  an'  green  everything  looks, 
an'  them  yeller  roses  air  all  in  bloom  ain't  they?" 

Prudence  Tolbert  stepped  cat-like  into  the 
house.  She  had  just  run  over  before  breakfast 
to  see  how  Mrs.  Bryan  was,  and  bring  a  glass  of 
her  red  currant  jelly.  Prudence  was  famous  for 
her  jams  and  jellies. 

"How  is  she?"  whispered  Prudence,  setting 
the  jelly  on  the  bureau. 

"I  think  she's  dyin' ;  she's  beginnin'  to  see 
things ;  she  says  the  kitchen  door's  wide  open," 
and  Clarissa  wiped  her  weak  eyes.  "I  think  we'd 
better  call  Hetty  and  send  for  the  doctor,  don't 
you,  Prudence?" 

Prudence  bent  over  the  woman,  who  seemed 
in  a  deep  sleep.  She  listened  to  her  breathing 
and  touched  the  thin  hands  with  the  back  of 
her  fingers. 


154  TRANSPLANTED 

"Yes,  I  guess  she's  dyin',  poor  thing.  Dear 
me !  Clar'sy,  her  cap  ain't  on  straight,  I'll  jes' 
pull  it  roun'  a  leetle  mite,  careful,"  and  she  pro- 
ceeded to  straighten  the  cap  and  retie  the 
strings  into  a  neat  bow.  Prudence  was  very 
particular;  she  had  always  liked  Mrs.  Bryan  and 
she  couldn't  bear  to  think  of  her  friend  appear- 
ing at  the  judgment  with  her  cap  on  crooked. 

"Now  I'll  slip  over  quick  an'  call  Hetty.  You 
jes'  stay  right  here  by  her,  Clar'sy." 

The  sick  woman  lay  all  day  and  all  night  in  a 
trance-like  sleep.  Mahetabel,  with  a  pale,  sad 
face  and  tearless  eyes  sat  beside  her  mother, 
stroking  her  thin  hands  and  administering  the 
few  little  comforts  she  required.  There  was 
now  no  outward  show  of  grief;  it  had  settled 
down  into  her  woman's  heart,  and  in  her  sad 
eyes  burned  the  light  of  a  new-born  conscious- 
ness. 

Just  as  the  golden  morning  sun  had  kissed  to 
tears  the  frost  ferns  on  the  little  window  panes, 
the  dying  woman  opened  her  eyes  and  looked 
towards  the  kitchen  door.  A  happy  smile 
spread  over  her  face,  the  brightest,  happiest 
smile  Mahetabel  had  ever  seen  her  wear. 

"Why,  there's  Lijy,  standin' — right  in  the 
kitchen  door!  Leave — the  door  open — Lijy, 
I  want  to  see — the  hills." 


TOLLIVER'S   FOOL 


155 


TOLLIVER'S  FOOL 

They  sat  on  the  green  hillside  that  over- 
looked their  humble  home  in  the  valley.  The 
long  tree-shadows  dappled  the  noisy  brook  that 
swirled  swiftly  by,  over  white,  mossy  stones. 

"How  can  you  sit  there  and  read,  Mandy, 
when  there's  so  much  to  see  and  hear  that's 
real — that's  not  made  up  out  of  nothing?" 
Faith  lay  on  the  grass,  with  her  folded  hands 
under  the  back  of  her  head.  She  was  listening, 
with  half  closed  eyes,  to  the  low  music  of  the 
brook,  the  mingled  tones  of  the  cow  bells  down 
in  the  valley,  and  the  tinkle  of  approaching 
sheep  bells. 

"Listen,  Mandy,  listen,"  she  said.  "That's 
a  new  cow  bell,  as  sure  as  the  world.  Or, 
mebbe  it's  a  new  cow.     Do  you  s'pose  'tis  ?" 

"I'm  sure  I  don't  know,  and  I'm  sure  I  don't 
care  if  it  is.  Now  you  listen  to  me  a  minute. 
Faith,  and  do  try  to  understand  and  appreciate 
these  last  three  verses.  I'll  read  them  over 
twice."  And  Amanda  read  and  reread  the  last 
three  stanzas  of  Tennyson's  Brook. 

157 


158  TOLLrlVER'S    FOOL 

"Now,  tell  me  honestly,  Faith,  can  you  see  no 
beauty  and  hear  no  music  in  that?" 

"Why,"  replied  the  younger  sister,  pulling  up 
a  handful  of  tender  grass,  "It's  beautiful 
enough,  and  I  like  the  sound  of  it.  If  I  had  to 
stay  in  the  house  all  the  time  like  Mary  Conley, 
I  should  like  to  read  such  things;  it'd  be  like 
looking  at  a  picture  of  outdoors;  but  I'd  a 
good  deal  rather  be  out  doors.  I  just  hate  that 
old  rag  of  a  book  of  yours." 

"Faith!  I'm  astonished.  I'm  glad  no  one 
heard  that  remark  but  your  sister.  It's  awful ; 
I'm  ashamed  of  you." 

"Well,  you've  never  been  the  same  since 
you've  had  that  book.  We  don't  have  a  bit  of 
fun  any  more.  You  used  to  play  tag  with  me, 
and  lots  of  things.  Now  you  read,  read,  read, 
all  the  time,  'most,  an'  I'm  as  lonesome  as  lone- 
some," Faith  sobbed  out.  "I  hate  your  old 
book,  so  I  do.  I  wish  it'd  git  burnt  up." 
Amanda  took  one  of  her  sister's  hands  and 
stroked  it. 

"You  don't  understand,  Faithie.  I'm  a 
woman  now;  I'm  past  seventeen.  You  couldn't, 
at  least  you  oughtn't  to  expect  me  to  enjoy 
playing  tag  as  I  used  to.  I  hunger  after  learn- 
ing. I  feel  as  if  I  shall  die  if  I  can't  have  it. 
You're  a  child  yet;  only  fourteen.  You  can't 
understand  my  feelings." 


TOI^LIVER'S     FOOL  159 

Faith  felt  convicted;  she  did  not  understand 
fully,  but  her  heart  yearned  towards  her  sister, 
and  she  also  felt  that  she  would  be  willing  to 
endure  almost  anything  if  she  could  understand, 
and  live  again  in  the  same  world  with  Amanda. 

"I  would  suffer  any  privation  to  get  learning, 
Faith,"  pursued  Amanda.  "I  don't  care  for 
the  work  of  it.  I'd  rather  die  getting  education 
than  to  live  without  it ;  that's  the  truth." 

"Then  you're  going  to  have  it,  Mandy,  that's 
what  you  are.  I'll  see  to  it  myself,"  declared 
Faith  with  vehemence. 

"I  want  to  graduate,  Faith,  graduate  at  a 
high  school."  Amanda  spoke  the  word 
"graduate"  as  if  it  stood  for  the  very  acme  of 
learning,  and  were  not  to  be  mentioned  by  un- 
initiated lips  above  a  whisper. 

"Then  I  should  know  just  about  everything 
that's  worth  knowing;  I  could  quote  poetry  by 
the  hour." 

Faith  gazed  at  her  sister  doubtfully.  "Is  that 
what  folks  go  to  school  an'  graduate  for?  to 
cote  portry?" 

"No,  not  for  that  alone.  I  could  earn  oceans 
and  oceans  of  money  teaching  school  if  I  could 
graduate.  And  Faith,  when  I  think  how  awful 
poor  we  are,  and  that  I  can  never  graduate,  but 
must  live  down  there  in  that  little  grey  shanty 


160  TOLLIVER'S    FOOL 

of  a  house,  and  cook,  and  wash,  and  scrub,  and 
churn  till  my  life  ends,  I  feel  desperate.  I  don't 
know  but  I  shall  jump  into  the  creek  some  day 
an'  drown  myself.     It  worries  me." 

"Oh,  no  you  won't,  Mandy,"  said  Faith  in 
perfect  seriousness,  "you  couldn't;  it  ain't  deep 
enough.  But  if  I  was  you,  whenever  I  begun 
to  feel  desprit,  I'd  put  on  one  o'  my  old  dresses. 
If  you  should  happen  to  jump  in  with  your  best 
one  on,  it  would  never  look  starchy  again,  and 
it'd  most  likely  always  smell  of  frogs  and  polly- 
wogs." 

"You  see.  Faith,  I'm  wasting  my  life.  I  have 
a  fine  mind.  Elder  Garland  said  so  to  Aunt 
Hannah ;  I  heard  him ;  and  he  said  't  would  be 
a  pity  if  I  couldn't  have  a  chance.  Now,  how 
am  I  going  to  get  it?  There  ain't  any  use  in 
our  going  to  school  any  longer  as  we've  been 
going:  you  a  day  and  I  a  day.  One  of  us 
ought  to  go  every  day.  Now,  which  of  us  do 
you  think  ought  to  go.  Faith?  Aunt  Hannah 
argues  that  our  chances  ought  to  be  equal ; 
that's  why  I  am  kept  out  of  school  every  other 
day.  Now,  you  don't  hunger  after  learning, 
do  you,  Faith?  You've  never  felt  like  drown- 
ing yourself  on  account  of  it,  have  you  ?" 

Faith  gazed  at  the  dimpling  water  and 
shook  her  head. 


TOI^LIVER'S     FOOL  161 

"You  don't  care  to  graduate,  do  you?" 

Faith  fixed  her  eyes  on  the  hated  copy  of 
Tennyson  that  lay  in  her  sister's  lap  and  frankly 
admitted  that  she  did  not. 

Drawing  her  lips  into  a  line  of  determination, 
she  looked  up  at  her  sister  through  the  tangled 
curls  of  yellow  hair  that  hung  over  her  eyes 
like  the  foretop  of  an  unkempt  colt. 

"I'll  'range  it  for  you,  Mandy.  I'll  tell  Daddy 
and  Aunt  Hannah  that  I  don't  want  to  go  to 
school  any  more ;  that  I  just  won't.  Then  you 
c'n  go  every  day  till  you  graduate  an'  can't 
learn  any  more.     I  c'li  go,  after  you — " 

"Do  you  mean  it,  Faithie?  Do  you  really 
think  you  could  do  all  the  work  and  take  care 
of  Wallie,  too?" 

"Yes,  I  can  an'  I  will.  If  you  want  to  go  off 
an'  graduate  an'  learn  how  to  cote  portry,  why 
go.  I  may  have  some  trouble  with  WalHe; 
sometimes  he  runs  away,  you  know.  But  maybe 
he  won't  run  away  any  more.  Don't  you  think 
he's  a  little  mite  better  than  he  used  to  be, 
Mandy  ?  Uncle  Dick  thinks  he  is.  Uncle  Dick 
says  he's  not  half  such  an  idiot  as  we  think  him. 
He's  very  bright  about  some  things,  you  know. 
Say,  Mandy!  don't  you  think  he's  a  little  mite 
better  than  he  was  ?    Poor  little  brother !" 

"No,  I  think  he's  worse.    Anyway,  the  foolish 

K 


162  TOLLIVER'S     FOOL 

things  he  does  didn't  seem  so  bad  in  a  little 
child.  He's  a  big  boy  now,  and  people  expect 
more  of  him.  I  believe  his  fits  are  getting 
worse,  too.     He  had  three  last  week." 

"No,  Mandy,  only  two." 

"Yes,  he  had  one,  an  awful  one  while  you 
were  over  to  Aunt  Hannah's."  Amanda  turned 
suddenly  and  faced  her  sister.  "I  s'pose  you'll 
think  I'm  desperately  wicked,  Faith,  but  I  can't 
help  it.  The  fact  is  I  almost  hate  Wallie ;  that's 
the  truth.  He  keeps  me  from  school,  and 
every  time  any  one  comes  in,  he  makes  me  so 
ashamed.  Last  Sunday,  when  Mr.  Curtice 
called,  Wallie  acted  the  worst  I  ever  knew  him 
to.  I  tried  to  get  him  to  go  out  and  play;  I 
offered  him  everything;  but  not  a  step  would 
he  go.  He  felt  in  all  Mr.  Curtice's  pockets  and 
turned  them  wrong  side  out;  then  he  climbed 
upon  the  bureau  and  crowed  like  a  rooster.  I 
could  have  cried.  He  acted  better  after  you 
came  home  from  meeting." 

"Wallie  knows  you  don't  love  him,  Mandy. 
Poor  brother !  It  wasn't  his  fault  that  mother 
dropped  him.  It  might  'a'  been  you  or  I  as 
well  as  Wallie.  I  guess  mother's  glad  we're 
kind  to  her  poor,  little,  hurt  baby — I  know  she 
is." 

"You  don't  know  any  such  thing,  Faith. 
How  absurd !" 


TOLIvIVER'S    FOOIv  163 

"I  tell  you  I  do.  I  can  feel  her  bending  over 
me  sometimes  when  I'm  going  to  sleep,  and 
sometimes  she  kisses  me.  I  can  feel  it  as  plain 
as  anything.  Then  when  I  wash,  I  don't  wash 
that  spot ;  I  wash  all  round  it.  When  she  kisses 
me  again,  I  wash  off  the  old  kiss  and  leave  the 
new  one ;  so  I  get  my  face  washed  all  over  after 
awhile." 

"Faith  Tolliver !     What  a  little  silly  you  are !" 

Faith  had  risen  and  was  wading  slowly 
through  the  brook.  A  few  flirting  minnows 
nibbled  warily  at  her  toes;  she  watched  them, 
smiling. 

"Come,  hurry.  Faith.  Don't  stop  to  play.  It's 
supper  time  now,  and  there  comes  Daddy.  I'll 
come  just  the  minute  I  finish  reading  these  last 
six  verses.  Come,  Faith,  hurry,  or  I  sha'n't 
believe  you  can  do  all  the  work.  You  can't, 
either,  if  you  go  on  playing  Hke  a  child." 

"Oh,  Mandy!  Look  at  the  clouds.  Pure 
white  snow  drifts, — and  pink  ones  and  gold, — 
Oh,  Mandy!  Look  at  that  big  one;  it's  all  on 
fire —  and  look  at  the — " 

"Faith !  Are  you  going  to  get  supper,  or 
shall  I  have  to  go?" 

For  reply,  the  little  girl  stepped  upon  the 
bank,  shook  out  her  skirts  and  bounded  away, 
her  hair  flying. 


164  TOLLIVER'S    FOOL, 

Alexander  Tolliver,  with  his  wooden  leg 
stretched  out  before  him,  sat  on  the  kitchen 
lounge.  His  little  daughter  was  obliged  to 
step  over  the  leg  as  she  walked  back  and  forth 
from  the  cupboard  to  the  table. 

"Uncle  Dick  offered  to  buy  her  books,  did 
you  say,  Faithful?" 

"Yes,  he  offered  that  a  long  time  ago.  He 
knows  Mandy's  got  a  fine  mind ;  everybody  says 
so." 

"Who  said  so,  Faithful  ?  Who  do  you  mean 
by  everybody?"  asked  the  old  man,  laying  his 
newspaper  on  the  lounge  beside  him, 

"Why  Elder  Garland  said  so,  for  one.  Mandy 
heard  him.  Everybody  knows  Mandy's  got 
a  head  for  books  an'  I  ain't  got  any  at  all;  it's 
just  wasting  time  for  me  to  go  to  school.  I 
don't  care  a  mite  for  portry,  an'  never  shall. 
Mandy  can  earn  oceans  and  oceans  of  money 
after  she  gits  through  graduating,  and  then 
she's  going  to  learn  me  how  to  talk  proper." 

"Daddy's  afeard  you  can't  do  all  the  work, 
Faithful,  an'  take  care  o'  little  brother,  too. 
And  brother  must  have  good  care.  Come  here, 
Wallie,  an'  set  on  Daddy's  lap." 

"Yes  I  can  do  all  the  work  too,  Daddy.  It'll 
be    easy.     I'm    stronger   than    I    look."     And 


TOIvIylVER'S     FOOL  165 

Faith  picked  up  a  pail  of  water  that  her  father 
had  just  brought  in,  and  set  it  on  the  other  end 
of  the  bench,  giving  him  a  side  glance. 

"You've  no  idee  how  strong  I  be.  Just  feel 
o'  my  arm." 

"Yes,  you've  got  a  powerful  arm,  Faithful, 
an'  no  mistake — feels  'bout  Hke  the  leg  of  a 
spring  chicken."  Faith  pouted,  then  laughed, 
as  she  sawed  off  slices  of  bread,  holding  the 
loaf  against  her  breast. 

Amanda  came  in  with  her  books  just  as  her 
father  and  sister  were  sitting  down  to  supper. 

"So  you're  reely  bent  on  goin'  ofT  to  school, 
be  ye,  Mandy?"  The  color  in  Amanda's 
cheeks  deepened. 

"Why,  Faith  thinks  she  can  get  along  with- 
out me.  Daddy,  and  everybody  thinks  I  ought 
to  go  to  school." 

"Everybody,  eh?  Wa'al,  but  how  'bout 
Faithful  goin'  to  school?  Is  she  to  grow  up  an' 
know  nothin'?" 

The  color  in  Amanda's  cheeks  again  deep- 
ened and  spread. 

"Faith  is  younger  than  I  am.  Daddy.  She 
can  go  after  I  get  through." 

"Wa'al,  I  don't  see  no  objection  to  that  plan, 
if  it  suits  Faithful,  an'  I  guess  it  does.     You  c'n 


166  TOLLIVER'S    FOOL, 

go,  then,  Mandy.  I  guess  we'll  git  along  some 
way,  but  we'll  miss  ye,  terrible."  The  old 
man's  eyes  were  misty, 

Alexander  Tolliver  was  married  late  in  life 
to  a  fair  young  girl  less  than  half  his  age. 
Faith  was  her  living  image.  The  newly  mar- 
ried couple  had  started  in  life  with  very  little 
means.  A  year  or  two  later  the  bread  win- 
ner had  met  with  an  accident  that  cost  him  a 
leg.  Nevertheless,  they  had  rented  the  little 
farm  in  the  valley,  finally  bought  it,  and 
the  struggle  of  their  life  had  been  to  get  it  paid 
for.  Their  second  child,  Wallace,  when  about 
two  years  old,  sprang,  in  play,  from  his  mother's 
arms,  and,  striking  his  head  on  an  iron  fender, 
received  an  injury  that  nearly  cost  him  his  life, 
and  from  which  he  had  never  fully  recovered. 
The  young  mother  died  six  months  later,  blam- 
ing herself  to  the  last  for  the  'accident  which 
she  felt  fully  convinced  had  irreparably  dimmed 
the  bright  intellect  of  her  beautiful  little  son. 

The  crown  of  Faith's  yellow  head  was  buried 
in  the  flank  of  a  black  cow.  She  had  given 
Wallie  a  cup  of  warm  milk,  and  he  was  down 
on  his  knees  trying  to  drink  it  like  a  cat. 

"Get  up,  Wallie,  quick.  Somebody's  coming. 
Get  up,  dear,  please." 


TOLLIVER'S    FOOL,  167 

"Good  evening,  Miss  Faith." 

"Good  evening,  Mr.  Garland." 

A  young  man  leaned  on  the  barn-yard  fence, 
hat  in  hand.  His  face  was  slightly  flushed  from 
rapid  walking,  and  he  smiled  pleasantly  as  he 
wiped  his  damp  forehead.  Faith  looked  up  at 
him  through  her  hair. 

"Won't  you  come  in,  Mr.  Garland?  Daddy'll 
be  back  pretty  soon,  he's  just  gone  a  little  way 
after  a  load  of  wood.  There  he  comes  over  the 
hill,  now." 

"No,  thank  you.  Miss  Faith.  I  stopped  a 
moment  to  speak  to  you,  and  to  ask  if  you've 
heard  from  Amanda  yet."  Caleb  Garland 
blushed  as  he  spoke  Amanda's  name.  He  was 
better  acquainted  with  her  than  he  was  with 
Faith. 

"Yes,  we  had  a  letter  from  her  yesterday. 
She  likes  it ;  she  says  she  was  never  so  happy  in 
her  Hfe." 

"Good !  I'm  glad  she  likes  it.  I  felt  sure 
she  would,  though.  I  know  all  about  the  Hazen 
School,  Miss  Faith ;  I've  been  through  it." 

Faith  had  set  her  pail  of  milk  down  beside 
her,  and  stood  facing  the  young  man.  She 
gazed  at  him  with  parted  lips  and  fixed  eyes. 

"Did  you,"  she  stopped  to  swallow,  "gradu- 
ate, Mr.  Garland?" 


168  TOLLIVER'S     FOOL 

"Yes,  Miss  Faith.  I  graduated  at  the  Hazen 
high  school  five  years  ago;  before  I  entered 
the  University." 

If  there  was  a  world  between  these  two 
young  persons  a  moment  before,  there  were 
two  worlds  between  them  now.  Faith  gazed 
at  the  young  man  as  if  he  were  miles  away. 

"I  s'pose  you  can  cote  portry  by  the  hour," 
said  she  at  last. 

"Do  you  like  poetry,  Miss  Faith?" 

"No,  I  hate  it." 

"So  do  I.  That  is,  I'm  not  so  very  fond  of 
it;  I  prefer  good  prose." 

Both  worlds  were  swept  away. 

All  of  that  evening,  as  Faith  hurried  about 
her  work,  she  murmured  between  snatches  of 
song:     "He  hates  portry,  and  so  do  I." 

It  was  the  last  week  in  September.  Amanda 
had  been  at  school  three  weeks,  and  she  was 
coming  home  for  the  first  time  to  stay  over 
Sunday.  Faith  had  finished  her  baking,  washed 
the  windows  and  scrubbed  the  knotty  floors  of 
the  two  rooms  down  stairs ;  now  she  was  sweep- 
ing the  dooryard  out  as  far  as  the  ground  was 
hard  and  grassless.  Wallie,  who  was  now 
sixteen  years  of  age,  had  climbed  into  a  tree  and 


TOLLIVER'S     FOOL  169 

was  shrieking  and  howling  hke  an  enraged  wild 
animal.  Faith  walked  to  the  tree  and  looked 
up. 

"Wallie, won't  you  come  down  now?  Mandy's 
coming  home  by  and  by.  Come  down,  like  a 
good  boy,  and  put  on  your  shoes  and  some 
clean  clothes."  Faith's  voice  was  soft  and  plead- 
ing. The  boy  sat  still  with  his  lips  in  an 
obstinate  pout. 

"Come,  Wallie.  Come  down  and  put  on 
some  clean  clothes  and  play  you're  a  boy,  just 
■for  this  afternoon,  and  be  sitting  in  a  chair  when 
Mandy  comes.  It'll  surprise  her.  You  shake 
hands  with  her  when  she  comes  in,  and  say, 
'how  are  you,'  just  like  a  boy — just  like  Tommy 
Blake.  If  you  will,  Faithie  will  give  you  a  warm 
cooky  and  a  lump  of  sugar, — two  cookies  and 
two  lumps  of  sugar,"  added  Faith,  clapping  her 
hands  in  assumed  merriment. 

"No,  won't.  Won't  be  a  boy.  Won't  be  a 
boy.  Won't  put  clothes  on.  Wallie's  a  bad  old 
cat.  Cross  old  cat."  And  he  climbed  higher 
in  the  tree,  clawed  at  the  branches,  and  howled 
more  viciously  than  ever. 

The  thing  that  impressed  one  on  seeing 
Wallie  the  first  time  was  that  his  eyes  were 
much  too  large  for  his  little,  pale  face.     Beauti- 


170  TOLLIVER'S    FOOL 

ful  dark  eyes  they  were — so  like  his  father's  and 
Amanda's — but  they  were  always  wavering.  He 
seemed  unable  to  fix  them  upon  anything. 

Mr.  Benjamin  Curtice  had  driven  Amanda 
home  in  his  new  top  buggy.  They  sat  in  the 
"front  room"  laughing  and  talking  of  their 
common  acquaintances  in  Hazen. 

The  day  was  bright,  and  as  much  of  the  sun- 
shine as  could  get  in  through  the  little  windows, 
lay  in  squares  on  the  clean,  bare  floor.  Fresh 
asparagus  hung  around  the  looking-glass,  and 
a  tumbler  of  garden  flowers  stood  on  the  table. 
Amanda  was  giving  an  account  of  her  first  day 
in  school.  Faith  had  hard  work  to  keep  her 
merriment  within  the  bounds  of  good  taste ;  she 
thought  it  the  most  amusing  experience  she 
had  ever  heard  of.  She  was  proud  of  her 
sister's  wit,  and  of  her  beauty. 

Mr.  Curtice,  his  head  bent  forward,  was  also 
listening,  with  alternate  smiles  and  laughter. 
Amanda  had  a  charming  way  of  relating  things. 
They  were  all  laughing  gaily  when  Wallie  came 
in  dressed  in  his  best  and  dragging  his  old 
clothes  by  a  suspender. 

The  moment  the  boy  discovered  there  was 
company,  he  dropped  the  clothes  and  started 
upon  his  usual  round  of  exhibitions,  beginning 


TOLLIVER'S     FOOIy  171 

with  the  forage  of  pockets,  which  were  invaria- 
bly turned  wrong  side  out. 

Intervention  on  the  part  of  his  sisters  only- 
made  matters  worse.  If  the  pockets  contained 
nothing  that  happened  to  please  him,  the  un- 
fortunate possessor  of  them  was  made  to  suffer 
accordingly.  There  was  only  a  card-case,  a 
purse,  some  toothpicks  and  a  few  letters  in  Mr. 
Curtice's  pockets.  WalHe  had  no  desire  for 
such  things.  He  threw  them  down  and  walked 
out  of  doors  with  a  disgusted  look  on  his  face. 

A  few  minutes  later,  while  Mr.  Curtice  was 
leaning  forward  to  look  at  some  pictures  in  an 
album  that  lay  on  Amanda's  lap,  Wallie  stepped 
up  cautiously  from  behind  them  and  dropped 
a  hand  full  of  burs  inside  the  young  man's 
collar. 

Amanda  burst  into  tears  of  shame  and  vexa- 
tion. Faith,  with  dilated  nostrils  and  firmly 
compressed  lips,  coaxingly  pushed  her  brother 
out  of  doors  and  played  "pig"  with  him  till 
supper  time. 

What  with  the  sobs  of  the  girl  by  his  side, 
and  the  sand-burs  under  his  collar,  the  visitor 
was  greatly  distressed.  He  soothed  Amanda 
as  best  he  could,  assuring  her  that  he  rather 
enjoyed  the  boy's  pranks;  that  children  would 
be  children,  and  he  hoped  she  would  not  let  it 


172  TOLIvIVER'S     FOOL 

disturb  her  in  the  least.  It  soon  occurred  to 
him,  however,  that  he  had  agreed  to  meet  a 
friend  at  the  Corners  and  must,  accordingly, 
take  his  leave  at  once.  Amanda  started  the 
conversation  when  she  sat  down  to  supper. 

"Aunt  Hannah  came  to  see  me  this  week, 
father,  and — she — among  other  things,  we 
talked  about  WalHe." 

"Wa'al,  what  of  it?  What  did  'mount  to?" 
asked  the  father,  without  raising  his  eyes  from 
his  plate. 

"She  thinks  it  is  your  duty  to  put  him  into  a 
home  for  the  weak-minded ;  there's  one  at  Well- 
wood."  Faith  dropped  her  knife  and  fork  and 
looked  at  her  sister  with  pain  in  her  beautiful 
eyes. 

"Of  course  you  didn't  agree  with  her,  Mandy. 
I'm  surprised  at  Aunt  Hannah." 

"No,  not  exactly;  but  I  think  we  ought  to 
try  it  for  a  few  months  or  a  year,  and  if  we 
didn't  like  it  we  could  take  him  away.  What 
do  you  say,  father?  You  see  it  might  benefit 
the  child,  and  he  is  such  a  care." 

"Not  much  to  you,  Mandy,"  repHed  Faith  in 
a  strained  voice. 

"Now,  Faith,  don't  be  foolish  and  sentimental. 
We  have  some  rights  as  young  ladies,  and  I  can 
have  no  pleasure  in  home  when  we  have  such 


TOLI^IVER'S    FOOIy  173 

scenes  as  we  had  this  afternoon  every  time  any- 
one comes  in." 

The  old  man  cleared  his  throat  and  bent 
lower  over  his  plate,  but  said  nothing. 

"Besides,  you  can't  have  company,  Faith; 
neither  can  you  go  anywhere.  You  can't  go 
out  of  sight  of  the  house,  and  it's  not  good  for 
you.  Aunt  Hannah  says  you'll  never  amount 
to  anything  if  you  stay  here  cooped  up  with 
that  child  all  the  time,  with  no  one  to  talk  to 
but  him.  And  you  know" — Faith  could  remain 
silent  no  longer. 

"It  don't  make  one  mite  of  difference  to  me, 
Mandy,  what  Aunt  Hannah  thinks.  Wallie 
ain't  her  brother;  he's  mine;  an'  I'm  going  to 
take  care  of  him  just  as  long  as  he  lives,  whether 
I  amount  to  anything  or  not.  I'm  sorry,  very 
sorry,  you  can't  have  any  pleasure  in  coming 
home."  Faith's  hand  shook  as  she  stirred  her 
tea. 

"What  do  you  think,  father?" 

"I  think  just  as  Faith  does,  Mandy.  Wallie 
b'longs  t'us,  an'  not  t'other  folks.  There  ain't 
no  tellin'  how  they'd  use  him  down  there  to  that 
Wellwood  home.  Mebbe  he'd  git  enough  t'eat, 
an'  mebbe  he  wouldn't ;  jes'  as  Faith  says." 

Amanda  leaned  back  in  her  chair,  and  with 
an  ill-concealed  effort  to  speak  calmly,  said: 


174  TOLLIVER'S    FOOL 

"You  think  altogether  of  Wallie,  father,  and 
not  at  all  of  us  girls.     Faith'll  grow  stupid." 

"I  won't,"  protested  Faith,  spiritedly,  her 
cheeks  growing  red. 

''It  is  kinder  hard  on  you  girls,  that's  a  fact. 
I  wonder  what  his  mother'd  say.  I  alius 
wonder  what  she'd  say." 

"I  know  what  she'd  say,"  asserted  the  younger 
sister,  averting  her  face  to  hide  her  tears,  "an' 
I  know  what  she'd  do.  If  her  poor,  little,  hurt 
baby  was  sent  away  from  home  to  live  with 
folks  that  didn't  love  him,  she'd  go  along  and 
take  care  of  him,  and  that's  just  what  I  shall  do 
if  he's  sent  away." 

The  discussion  ended  here.  Tolliver's  fool, 
as  he  was  called  by  the  boys  in  the  neighbor- 
hood, was  not  sent  to  the  Wellwood  Home. 

Three  years  had  gone  since  Amanda  entered 
the  high  school.  She  stood  well  in  her  classes, 
and  no  scholar  gave  better  promise  of  a  brilliant 
finish. 

Faith  sat  under  the  big  tree  by  the  gate, 
sewing.  It  was  a  bright  June  afternoon,  and 
the  bees  that  swarmed  about  the  blossom-laden 
rose  bush  at  her  back,  crawled  unmolested  over 
her  busy  hands,  and  waded  toppling  through 
her  yellow  hair.  There  was  a  sound  of  wheels 
and  she  looked  up.     A  white  horse  hitched  to 


TOLIvIVER'S     FOOIy  175 

an  old-fashioned  buggy  was  coming  up  the  road. 
An  old  woman  with  short  iron  grey  curls  and 
a  martyr  expression,  sat  in  the  middle  of  the 
seat  flapping  the  loose  lines.  She  clucked  and 
chirped  alternately,  with  an  occasional  "git  app, 
Madge."  The  old  mare  showed  her  apprecia- 
tion of  these  attentions  by  turning  her  ears  back 
now  and  again  to  catch  the  sound,  but  this  ac- 
tion had  no  perceptible  effect  upon  her  gait. 
There  seemed  to  be  a  tacit  understanding  be- 
tween horse  and  driver  that  a  certain  amount  of 
urging  should  be  gone  through  with  as  a  matter 
of  form. 

Faith  walked  to  the  gate  and  opened  it  when 
she  saw  that  her  Aunt  Hannah  was  coming  in. 

"Makin'  white  aprons,  eh.  Faithful?  What 
be  ye  makin'  them  on?  Why,  ain't  this  the 
stuff  't  yer  aunt  'Lis'beth  give  yer  fer  a  dress, 
on  yer  las'  birthday  ?" 

"Yes." 

"Why,  you  don't  tell  me !  You'd  ruther  hev 
aprons  than  a  dress,  hey?" 

"They  ain't  for  me ;  they're  for  Mandy.  All 
the  girls  at  school  wear  white  aprons  and 
Mandy  hasn't  one ;  not  one,  and  I  don't  need  a 
new  white  dress.  I  shouldn't  wear  it  if  I  had  it. 
And  what  would  be  the  use?  No  one  ever  sees 
me. 

"Now  that's  jest  what  I'm  a  comin'  to.     You 


176  TOIvLrlVER'S     FOOI, 

never  see  nobody,  and  never  will,  so  long  as 
you're  tied  up  with  that  poor  boy.  Now  I  think, 
an'  everybody  thinks,  Wallie  ought  to  be  sent 
away  to  the  Wellwood  Hum.  The  continual 
worrytin'  about  what  might  happen  to  you 
when  you're  all  'lone  with  that  boy,  is  jes' 
breakin'  of  me  down.  'Tain't  nothin'  else  that's 
gi'n  me  this  rackin'  agony  in  my  left  leg ;  nothin*^ 
else  in  the  wide  world;  an'  the  misery  in  my 
stummick  is  gettin'  wuss  'n'  wuss  every  day.  I 
feel  jes's  if  I  can't  stan'  it  much  longer." 

"I'm  sorry  you  feel  so,  Aunt  Hannah,  for 
Wallie  is  not  going  to  be  sent  away.  We've 
talked  it  over,  and  it's  all  settled."  There  was 
a  note  in  Faith's  voice  that  was  convincing,  and 
the  subject  was  discussed  no  further. 

Hannah  Weaver  was  sixty-eight.  She  had 
been,  in  her  mind,  tottering  on  the  verge  of  the 
grave  for  thirty  years,  always  growing  rapidly 
worse.  She  delighted  in  conversations  on  dis- 
eases and  death.  Nothing  displeased  her  more 
than  to  be  told  that  she  looked  well.  She  had 
a  particular  penchant  for  new  diseases,  and 
especially  for  those  with  unpronounceable 
names. 

When  there  were  no  new  and  aristocratic 
maladies  stalking  about,  she  would  reluctantly 
fall  back  upon  the  "misery"  in  her  "stummick" 
and  the  agony  in  her  left  leg. 


TOLLIVER'S    FOOL  177 

"Wa'al,  it  ain't  fer  me  to  insist  on  it,  Faithful, 
if  you  'n'  yer  Pa  have  settled  it,  an'  I  ain't  goin' 
tew.  I  sha'n't  last  much  longer,  nohow;  I'm 
failin'  dretful  fast.  I've  been  thinkin'  lately 
that  I'd  ort  to  get  everything  ready,  for  there 
ain't  no  knowin' — " 

"Why  I  thought  you  had  everything  ready, 
Aunt  Hannah.  Your  shroud's  all  made,  isn't 
it?  And  your  lace  cap,  and  your  long,  white 
stockings,  and — " 

"Yes,  but  they's  a  good  many  other  things  to 
ten'  to.  I  wish  you'd  see  to  it.  Faithful,  after 
I'm  dead  an'  gone,  that  there's  something  about 
this,  on  my  grave  stun."  And  Hannah  spread 
her  hands  over  as  much  as  she  could  of  her 
ample  bosom.  "Not  bein'  able  to  find  out  what 
the  folks  died  with,  robs  me  of  all  the  pleasure 
of  visitin'  graveyards." 

Faith's  eyes  opened  wide. 

"You  don't  mean  about  your  stomach — your 
misery.  Aunt  Hannah?  You  don't  want  any- 
thing about  that  on  your  grave  stone,  do  you  ?" 

"Not  exactly  that.  You  needn't  tell  where 
the  pain  was.  I'd  rather  have  folks  stan'  at  my 
grave  an'  wonder  than  to  hev  'em  know  jest 
where  'twas.  Somethin'  like  this'd  read  well, 
I  think.  'She  suffered  all  the  pain  that  human 
flesh  is  heir  to.'     Or,  if  they  ain't  room  for  all 


178  TOLLIVER'S    FOOL 

that,  you  might  put  on,  just  under  the  name  an' 
date,  'she  was  a  great  sufferer.'  Or,  if  you  like 
it  better,  you  might  make  it  read,  'She  bore  her 
suff'rin's  Hke  a  martyr,'  or,  'without  a  murmur,' 
if  you  don't  Hke  the  word  'martyr.'  Or,  'she 
bore  'em  without  complaint.'  That  would  be 
best  of  all,  an'  it's  only  five  words :  'She,'  one ; 
'bore,'  two;  'them,'  three;  'without,'  four;  'com- 
plaint,' five."  Faith  stiffened  her  lips  and  did 
her  best  to  maintain  a  serious  expression. 

"That'd  never  do,  Aunt  Hannah.  Never  do 
in  the  world.  You'll  have  to  tell  what  you  bore ; 
folks  might  think  'twas  children,  an'  you  never 
had  any.  I'll  fix  it  though ;  I'll  write  a  verse  for 
you.  I'll  run  in  and  get  Daddy's  pencil  an' 
write  it  now,  so  you  can  take  it  home  with  you." 
Faith  came  back  from  the  house  walking  very 
slowly,  and  with  regular  motion.  She  was 
evidently  stepping  off  the  poetry.  Her  struggle 
with  the  muse  had  made  wrinkles  between  her 
eyes. 

"Don't  speak  to  me.  Aunt  Hannah,  and  I'd 
rather  you  wouldn't  even  look  at  me."  Hannah 
turned  her  eyes  towards  the  meadow  and  fixed 
them  upon  a  crow  that  sat  pluming  himself  on 
the  branch  of  a  dead  tree. 

"I've  thought  of  one  line  already,"  remarked 
the  poet.     "It  ends  with  woe ;  misery  and  woe." 


TOI^IvIVER'S    FOOL  179 

The   old   lady   smiled   and   her   face   depicted 
perfect  satisfaction  with  the  first  line. 

"How  does  this  sound,  Aunt  Hannah?  I 
think  I've  got  it  all  in  now,  an'  there's  only  two 
lines."     And  raising  her  head.  Faith  read : 

"  She  has  gone  from  a  world  of  misery  and  woe, 
To  a  place  she  has  always  been  dying  to  go." 

"They  ain't  nothin'  in  'bout  the  pain.  Faith- 
ful," observed  Hannah,  with  a  doubtful  look. 

"Well,  I've  got  "misery"  in  it,  and  that's 
about  the  same ;  it  really  means  more ;  it  might 
be  all  kinds  o'  trouble.  You  couldn't  have 
much  more  in ;  it  has  to  be  carved  in  the  stone, 
you  know.     It  would  cost  too  much." 

"Wa'al,  mebbe  that'll  do  jest  as  'tis,  then. 
Read  it  again,  slow." 

Faith's  head,  faintly  seconded  by  the  old 
lady's,  beat  time  to  the  rhythmic  accent  of  the 
lines  as  they  were  read.         ^^ 

"Beautiful,  Faithful.  I  hope  they'll  put  that 
in  the  'Argus'  after  I'm  gone :  You  must  see 
to  it.  I  sh'd  think  that'd  tech  anybody  that's 
got  any  feller  feelin's.  That  portry'll  bring  out 
the  hankchiffs  if  anything  will.  That'll  show 
'em  't  I  didn't  want  this  wicked  world  fer  my 
eternal  abidin'  place.  You  must  go  to  school 
some  more,  Faithful ;  you  reely  must." 


180  TOLIvIVER'S     FOOL 

The  young  girl  watched  her  aunt  with  an 
abstracted  gaze  as  she  drove  away. 

"How  that  buggy  top  swops  over  to  one 
side,"  thought  Faith.  "I  can  remember  when 
there  was  a  little  square  of  glass  in  the  back 
curtain  where  the  hole  is,  and  there  was  green 
fringe  all  around  inside;  and  there  was  a  little 
looking-glass  on  the  ladies'  side,  and  a  foot 
cushion.  I  wish  Aunt  Hannah'd  roll  up  that 
curtain,  and  not  let  it  hang  out  at  the  back, 
flapping  and  swinging  like  a  sheet  on  a  line." 
With  a  deep  sigli  the  young  girl  reseated  her- 
self, picked  up  her  sewing,  and  looked  hard  at 
the  point  of  her  needle, 

"I  wish  I  could  go  to  school,"  she  said  to  her 
needle.  "I  believe  I  will  try  to  go  after  Mandy 
comes  home.  She  can  take  care  of  Wallie  an' 
Daddy,  and  let  me  go,  at  least  a  year.  Every- 
body thinks  Wallie's  better  than  he  was,  and  I 
need  to  go ;  I'm  shamefully  ignorant.  Caleb 
said  something  the  other  day  about  the  Zulus. 
I  don't  even  know  who  they  are,  where  they 
live,  or  whether  they're  men  or  beasts." 

It  was  Friday  afternoon.  Amanda  had  just 
come  home  to  stay  over  Sunday. 

"I'm  so  glad  you've  got  your  dress,  Mandy. 
I  don't  believe  I  could  have  saved  enough  out 


TOLLIVER'S     FOOL  181 

of  the  butter  and  egg  money  in  a  year  to  get 
you  a  decent  one.  I've  been  trying  for  three 
months  and  how  much  do  you  think  I  have? 
One  dollar  and  twenty-eight  cents.  Now,  that 
you  have  your  dress,  how  would  it  do  for  me 
to  use  this  money  to  get  enough  goods  to  make 
a  new  waist  to  my  white  dress,  so  I  could  go  to 
school  the  day  you  graduate?  Couldn't  I? 
Say,  Mandy,  couldn't  I?"  Faith  gave  her 
sister  a  little  push. 

"That'll  get  my  gloves,"  murmured  Amanda. 
She  had  not  heard  a  word  her  sister  had  said 
beyond  the  dollar  and  twenty-eight  cents. 

"What,  Mandy?  The  dollar  and  twenty- 
eight  cents?" 

"Yes." 

"Do  you  have  to — have  gloves,  Mandy?" 

"Certainly,  All  the  girls  have  agreed  to 
wear  gloves.  You  don't  want  the  money  for 
anything,  do  you.  Faith?  If  you  do,  I  won't 
take  it." 

"Why,  no.     I  saved  it  for  you." 

"I  hope  I  shall  be  able  to  get  me  a  white 
satin  belt  ribbon,  too,"  continued  Amanda. 
"Maybe  you  can  save  enough  for  that  by  next 
June.  Do  you  think  you  can  ?  You  don't  need 
to  use  butter  for  cooking.  Miss  Fanning  uses 
lard." 


182  TOLLIVER'S    FOOL 

"Yes,  I  know  I  can  save  enough.  How  much 
will  it  cost?"  asked  the  venturesome  Faith. 

"About  seventy-five  cents.  You'd  better 
begin  now,  Faith,  for  you  know  you  can't  save 
a  cent  in  the  winter." 

"I  know  it.  We  ran  behind  last  winter  after 
the  heifer  went  dry.  We  had  to  do  without 
butter  some  of  the  time,  an'  when  the  hens 
stopped  laying,  I  tell  you  we  were  pretty  slim 
some  days."  Amanda  laid  her  arm  loosely 
about  her  sister's  shoulders. 

"You're  a  dear  girl.  Faith.  You  save  up 
enough  money  to  get  me  the  belt  ribbon,  and 
some  lace  for  my  neck  and  sleeves,  and  when 
I  get  to  teaching,  I'll  get  you  a  white  China 
silk  just  like  mine."  Faith  smiled  and  looked 
happy. 

"Wasn't  it  good  of  dear  old  Uncle  Dick  to 
get  you  such  a  beautiful  dress.  Just  think, 
Mandy.  White  silk."  Faith  gave  her  head  a 
little  jerk  and  her  blue  eyes  sparkled. 

"Yes,  it  was  good  of  him,  but  it  would  have 
been  better  if  he  had  given  me  enough  to  make 
a  decent  dress." 

"Why,  isn't  there  enough?" 

"There's  not  enough  for  an  overskirt,  I'm 
afraid,  and  I'm  dying  to  have  one.  All  the  girls 
are  havingthem.  But  maybe  there'll  be  enough ; 
I  hope  so." 


TOLLIVER'S    FOOL  183 

"Won't  it  look  nice  without  one?" 

"It  won't  be  fashionable." 

"But,  oh!  it  will  look  beautiful,  Mandy;  it 
can't  help  it.  Think  of  white  silk.  Oh,  I  wish 
I  could  be  with  you  when  you  graduate,  and 
see  you  standing  up  there  to  read  your  essay, 
all  dressed  in  white  silk  and  ribbons.  If  I  could 
only  look  at  you  through  some  little  crack  and 
have  nobody  see  me." 

"I  shouldn't  like  you  to  do  that,  Faith,  some 
one  would  be  sure  to  see  you ;  then  I  should  die 
with  shame.  I  wish  you  had  a  pretty  new  dress, 
dear,  even  a  colored  one,  and  then  you  could 
come  right  in  and  sit  through  it  all." 

"Oh,  I  wish  I  had."  And  Faith  clasped  her 
fingers  tightly  together  in  sympathy  with  the 
intensity  of  the  wish,  then  they  fell  apart  and 
lay  limp  in  her  lap. 

"But  I  can't,  and  there's  no  use  in  even  think- 
ing about  it." 

"If  you  only  hadn't  taken  the  lace  off  your 
blue  gingham  to  trim  handkerchiefs,  you  might 
wear  that  with  a  new  belt  ribbon  an'  some  new 
ribbons  for  your  hair." 

Faith  looked  up  with  interest. 

"Don't  you  think  it  would  do  as  it  is  with 
new  ribbons?  I  could  sit  away  back,  you 
know." 


184  TOLLIVER'S    FOOL 

"No,  Faith.  Without  the  lace  it  looks  just 
like  a  common  every-day  dress.  My  class- 
mates would  be  sure  to  find  out  you  were  there, 
and  ask  to  be  introduced,  and  I — " 

"But  I  wouldn't  come  near  you  nor  speak  to 
you,  and  when  you  got  up  to  read,  I  wouldn't 
act  a  mite  interested ;  I'd  look  out  of  the  window 
as  if—" 

"It  wouldn't  do,  Faith.  The  Curtices  will 
all  be  there ;  Ben  knows  you,  and  would  be  sure 
to  point  you  out  to  his  folks  as  my  sister,  and 
most  likely  he  would  wish  to  introduce  you. 
You  couldn't  refuse  to  be  introduced;  it  would 
be  an  insult  to  do  so,  and  I  should  be  ashamed — 
not  of  you,  but  of  your  dress.  It  would  look 
even  worse  there  among  all  the  pretty  fresh  new 
dresses  than  it  does  here  at  home." 

Faith  buried  her  face  in  her  sister's  lap  and 
gave  way  to  violent  sobs,  then  she  sprang  up 
suddenly  with  a  laugh  that  was  like  a  burst 
of  sunshine  in  the  midst  of  an  April  storm. 

"I  know  what  I  can  do,  Mandy.  I  can  put 
on  Wallie's  best  clothes  and  go  as  a  boy. 
Nobody'd  know  me  then ;  I  don't  believe  you'd 
know  me,  yourself." 

"Faith  Tolliver!  Are  you  losing  your 
senses?     What  would  you  do  with  your  hair?" 

"Tuck  it  under  my  cap." 


TOI^IvIVER'S     FOOI^  185 

"But  you  couldn't  sit  with  your  cap  on.  You 
would  be  expected  to  take  it  off  as  you  entered 
the  room.     You'd  have  to  cut  your  hair  off." 

"Well,  I'd  be  willing  to  cut  it  off." 

"That  would  be  wicked,  Faith ;  your  hair  is  so 
long  and  beautiful.  It  would  take  years  to 
grow  as  long  again." 

"I  don't  care;  I'll  do  it,  if  you'll  let  me. 
Nobody  ever  sees  me,  anyway.  Will  you  let 
me,  Mandy?     Say,  will  you?" 

Amanda  was  silent  for  a  few  moments  during 
which  time  Faith  studied  every  line  of  her  face. 

"If  the  exercises  were  to  be  in  the  evening 
and  out  of  doors.  Faith,  you  might  manage  to 
avoid  detection,  for  you  do  look  well  in  Wallie's 
clothes;  but  they  are  to  be  in  broad  daylight 
and  in  the  schoolhouse ;  some  one  would  be 
sure  to  know  you.  Besides,  I  should  be  so 
nervous  that  I  believe  it  would  make  me  sick.  I 
shouldn't  be  able  to  read  in  a  natural  voice,  and 
I  doubt  if  I  could  stand  on  my  legs  if  I  knew  you 
were  there  in — Oh  dear!  there  comes  Aunt 
Hannah.  Let's  hide  so  she  won't  see  us,  and 
then  maybe  she  won't  come  in."  Faith  turned 
her  head  and  looked  down  the  road. 

"Oh,  no,  Mandy,  don't  let's.  She's  so  good 
to  us.  You  know  she  just  about  half  keeps 
Miss  Fanning  in  butter  and  eggs  so  you  won't 


186  TOLLIVER'S    FOOL 

have  to  work  much  for  your  board  and  have 
more  time  to  get  your  lessons.  Don't  you 
think  that's  very  kind?" 

Amanda  dropped  back  into  her  seat  with  a 
sigh. 

"Yes,  I  know  it  is,  Faith.  I  suppose  I'm  un- 
grateful, but  you  know  how  tiresome  she  is.  I 
can't  bear  to  hear  her  grunt  about  her  leg. 
She's  always  just  ready  to  die." 

"Oh,  I  don't  mind  it  a  bit;  I've  got  used  to 
it;  I  like  to  hear  her  talk.  Be  good  to  her 
Mandy,"  pleaded  Faith,  in  a  low  tone,  as  she 
rose  to  open  the  gate,  "Why,  certainly," 
replied  the  elder  sister  in  a  whisper,  as  she  rose 
to  greet  her  aunt. 

"How  do  you  do,  Aunt  Hannah?"  said  Faith, 
with  a  broad  smile,  as  she  threw  the  gate  wide 
open.  "You  look  tired  out.  You  went  all  the 
way  to  Hazen,  didn't  ye?  Come  right  in  and 
sit  down  in  the  shade." 

"Wa'al,  I  jes'  be  purt'  nigh  tuckered  out,  I 
kin  tell  ye ;  an'  this  left  leg  o'  mine,  is  jest  about 
killin'  of  me,"  replied  the  old  lady  as  she  moved 
along  towards  the  settee  at  a  hobble-and-hop 
gait. 

"Wouldn't  you  prefer  to  go  into  the  house 
and  sit  in  the  rocking-chair?"  asked  Amanda, 
trying  her  best  to  look  pleased. 


TOLrlvIVER'S     FOOL  187 

"No,  Mandy,  I  prefer  to  set  here.  I  don't 
b'lieve  I  could  git  to  the  house  with  my  left  leg 
to  save  the  hull  country." 

"Well,  I'm  sure  no  reasonable  person  would 
expect  you  to  go  without  it,  aunt,  so  we  will 
try  to  content  ourselves  here.  I  hope  you 
didn't  have  to  hobble  Hke  this  when  you 
were  in  Hazen,"  remarked  Amanda,  with  an 
incredulous  look  and  a  side  glance  at  her  sister, 
as  she  arranged  a  cushion  for  herself. 

"Lan'  sakes,  no!  The  spell  didn't  come  on 
till  I'd  got  started  hum,  an'  it's  been  gettin'  wuss 
every  step  of  the  way."  Amanda  tossed  a 
folded  shawl  into  her  aunt's  lap. 

"Put  this  to  your  back,  aunt.  That  old  settee 
is  too  hollow  to  suit  me." 

"Thank  ye,  Mandy.  This  is  more  comf'table. 
I  begin  to  think't  my  back's  goin'  to  gin  out, 
too,  bimeby.     Declare  I  do." 

"Well,  really !  I  hope  not,  Aunt  Hannah.  I 
don't  see  how  you  could  get  along  without  your 
back,"  and  Amanda  smiled  cynically  as  she 
glanced  at  Faith  with  half  closed  eyes. 

"Wa'al,I  hope  'tain't  nothin'  ser'us,but  lately, 
'long  about  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon, 
(Amanda  leaned  her  back  against  a  tree  and 
closed  her  eyes)  there's  a  numb  feelin'  creeps 
up  and  down  my  spine,  followed  by  a  prickly 


188  TOLrlvIVER'S    FOOL 

sensashin,  an'  I  didn't  know  but  it  might  be  that 
new  disease  that  Mary  Ann  Towsley  died  with. 
The  doctors  is  all  in  twitter  'bout  it.  They 
dunno  what  to  make  on  it.  Her  sickness  begun 
by  jes'  such  a  numbness  and  pricklin's  I've  got, 
an'  I'm  sure  I  dunno  how  soon — Why,  Ian' 
sakes  alive !  What  in  this  world  did  I  do  with 
that  passel."  Hannah  sprang  up  briskly  enough, 
shook  out  her  skirts,  and  started  for  the  gate 
without  a  limp. 

"I  do  wonder  if  I've  gone  an'  lost  that  passel 
out  o'  the  kirrige." 

"Why,  you  put  a  parcel  on  the  seat  when  you 
got  out.  Was  that  the  one?"  asked  Faith, 
starting  toward  the  gate. 

"Why,  yes,  there  'tis  now.  What  a  scare 
that  did  give  me !  I  thought  jest  as  like  as  not 
I'd  gone  an'  lost  it  on  the  way  hum.  Oh 
dear,  oh  dear!  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  this 
excitement'd  start  up  the  misery  in  my 
stummick.  Bring  the  passel  here,  Faithful,  it's 
for  you,  anyway." 

"For  me?" 

"Yes.  I  see  Richard  in  the  city  and  he  tole 
me  he'd  bought  a  dress  for  Mandy  to  gradiate 
in,  an'  I  went  and  got  you  one  jes'  like  it.  I 
think  sisters  had  ort  to  be  dressed  alike." 

"Oh,     Aunt     Hannah!"     exclaimed     Faith, 


TOL,L,IVER'S    FOOL,  189 

throwing  her  arms  around  the  old  lady's  neck. 
"What  made  you  ?  How  did  you  come  to  think 
of  it?  How  did  you  know  I  was  nearly  dying 
to  go  ?  Oh,  Aunt  Hannah !  Dear  Aunt 
Hannah !  I  was  never  so  happy  in  all  my  life, 
that's  the  truth." 

"Why,  Faithful  Tolliver!  Leggo  my  neck. 
You're  a  shuvin'  my  bunnit  clean  off'm  my 
head,  and  you're  towsHn'  my  hair  every  which 
way." 

Faith  straightened  up,  and  the  sight  of  her 
aunt's  bonnet  hanging  on  one  ear,  threw  her 
into  a  fit  of  hysterical  laughter. 

Amanda  rose,  .straightened  the  bonnet  and 
retied  the  strings. 

"You  are  very  good,  Aunt  Hannah,  and  I 
thank  you  with  Faith.  I'm  sure  she  will  never 
forget  your  kindness." 

"Why,  I  calc'lated  all  the  while  to  git  her  a 
dress  to  wear  to  the  gradiatin' ;  o'  course  I  did, 
an'  o'  course  I'd  a  got  you  one  if  Dick  hadn't. 
Dear  me  suz,  how  tired  I  be !" 

"Open  the  passel,  Faithful,  and  see  how  you 
like  your  dress." 

Faith  opened  the  parcel  with  flaming  cheeks 
and  shaking  fingers. 

"Just  exa(5lly  Hke  mine,"  exclaimed  Amanda, 
caressing  the  roll  of  silk  as  one  would  a  kitten. 


190  TOLLIVER'S    FOOL 

"It's  off'm  the  same  piece.  It's  Chiny  silk,  an' 
they  say  it'll  wash  an'  dew  up  jes'  like  a  hank- 
chiff.  Well,  I  mus'  go  on  hum.  If  I  stay  out 
after  sundown,  I'm  sure  to  git  a  misery  some- 
wheres  er  other,  an'  then  I  don't  git  no  sleep  the 
hull,  endurin'  night.  If  you'll  open  the  gate, 
Faithful,  I'll  see  if  I  can  manage  to  git  to  the 
kirrige." 

Faith  opened  the  gate,  and  with  the  help  of 
both  girls,  the  old  lady  did  manage  to  get  to 
the  "carriage,"  climb  into  it  and  drive  way. 

The  following  winter  was  the  longest, 
loneliest  winter  Faith  had  ever  known.  The 
weather  had  been  very  dry,  with  but  few  of  the 
usual  cheery,  white  storms  to  break  the 
monotony  of  the  dull  cold  grey.  Only  a  few 
of  the  oldest  inhabitants  could  remember  ever 
having  seen  such  a  sombre,  monotonous  stretch 
of  cold  weather. 

"Daddy,  Aunt  Hannah  thinks  we're  going 
to  have  a  terrible  drouth  followed  by  a  famine, 
and  she  says  she  wouldn't  be  a  mite  surprised 
if  in  another  year  there  would  be  nothing  to  be 
seen  in  this  whole  valley  but  dry  bones."  The 
old  man  gave  way  to  a  hearty  laugh  that 
brought  Wallie  in  from  the  back  yard. 


TOI^LIVER'S     FOOL  191 

"Don't  count  too  much  on  what  yer  Aunt 
Hannah  perdicts,  Faithful.  Ye  know  every- 
thing looks  black  in  her  eyes.  She'd  take 
delight  in  a  famine,  Hannah  would.  What  be 
you  worryin'  'bout  a  drouth  for,  Faithful  ?  You 
shell  hev  enough  t'eat  as  long  as  Daddy  lives." 

"I'm  not  really  worrying.  Come,  supper's 
ready,  Daddy.  But  I  was  thinking  about  the 
garden.  It  wouldn't  do  to  plant  things  yet, 
would  it?     It's  too— too— " 

"Why,  law  no,  child.  The  frost  ain't  out  o' 
the  ground  yet." 

"I'm  afraid  Mandy  can't  wait  then — My,  oh ! 
but  that  teapot  handle's  hot — She  can't  wait 
for  the  peas  to  grow.  You  know  I  sold  three 
dollars  worth  last  year.  But  her  shoes  are 
about  worn  out  now."  There  was  silence. 
Alexander  was  gazing  out  over  the  garden. 

"You  haven't  the  money  to  spare  to  get  her 
a  pair  now,  have  you,  Daddy?" 

"Apair  of  what?" 

"Shoes.  Her's  are  worn  out ;  they're  not  fit 
to  be  seen." 

"You'll  hev  to  take  enough  out  o'  that  money 
in  the  clock,  if  she  has  to  hev  'em.  I'm  jest 
about  strapped  fer  money." 

"I   don't  want  to   do   that.   Daddy.     You'll 


192  TOLLIVER'S    FOOL 

never  in  the  world  get  your  new  leg  if  we  keep 
taking  money  out  for  every  little  thing.  Mandy 
won't  take  it.  This  old  leg  hurts  you,  I  know  it 
does." 

"Oh,  no,  Faithful.  I  don't  reely  hurt  me." 
"But  it's  not  comfortable,"  persisted  Faith. 
"No,  it  ain't  very  comf'table,  but  I  c'n  git 
along  with  it  a  spell  yet  better'n  Mandy  c'n  go 
barefoot.  I  hate  the  squeak  in  this  old  thing 
the  wust  of  anything,"  declared  the  old  man,  as 
he  picked  up  his  hat  and  went  out,  the  old  leg 
sending  forth  an  unmusical  little  squeak  at  each 
step. 

It  was  the  middle  of  June. 

Faith  sat  under  the  tree  by  the  gate  with  her 
back  to  the  roses.  She  was  engaged  in  sewing 
lace  around  the  edge  of  a  handkerchief.  It  was 
for  Amanda's  birthday.  Now  and  then  she 
raised  her  head  and  looked  down  the  road. 
There  was  a  wistful  look  in  her  eyes,  and  a 
little  droop  at  the  corners  of  her  mouth,  but, 
if  she  felt  any  anxiety,  it  was  as  yet  so  little 
that  she  was  not  aware  of  it.  .  Suddenly  a 
deep  flush  swept  over  her  face,  but  she  did 
not  move.  A  tall  young  man  with  a  dark 
pleasant  face  stood  still  at  the  gate  watching 
her. 


TOLLIVER'S    FOOL  193 

"I  wonder  what  she's  thinking  of,"  he 
mentally  queried.  "Too  bad  to  break  in  upon 
her  thoughts." 

"Oh,  I  know  you  are  there,  Caleb  Garland. 
I  saw  you.     You  might  as  well  come  in." 

"Saw  me,"  repeated  the  young  man  in- 
credulously, as  he  lightly  vaulted  over  the  gate 
and  walked  towards  her.  "I  don't  see  how  you 
could:  you  didn't  turn  your  head."  Faith 
laughed  merrily  and  her  eyes  danced  with 
mischief. 

"Why,  I  looked  at  you  through  my  hair,  out 
of  a  corner  of  my  eye ;  this  way :"  and  she  acted 
the  part  to  show  him  the  way  she  had  done  it. 
Caleb,  with  eyes  full  of  admiration  looked  down 
at  her,  smiling. 

"Encore !  Encore !"  he  cried,  laughing.  "Oh, 
do  it  again,  Faith,  please  do  it  again.  It's  the 
best  I  ever  saw." 

Faith's  cheeks  turned  almost  as  red  as  the 
roses  that  hung  over  her  shoulders. 

"I  sha'n't  do  any  such  thing.  You're  mak- 
ing fun  o'  me.  I  can  tell  when  folks  make  fun 
of  me,"  and  she  immediately  became  intensely 
interested  in  her  sewing.  Her  curved  lips  were 
drawn  into  a  straight  line,  but  she  had  hard 
work  to  keep  the  ends  of  the  line  from  turning 
upwards.     Caleb  threw  himself  down  upon  the 

M 


194  TOLIvIVER'S     FOOL 

grass  in  front  of  her,  ran  his  fingers  through  his 
hair,  then  raising  his  eyes  to  her  face,  resumed 
his  study  of  mock  dignity. 

"You  can,  can  you?" 

She  made  no  reply,  but  there  was  a  sHght 
dilation  of  the  nostrils  and  her  lips  tightened  a 
little. 

"Your  intuition  is  remarkable,  Faith.  You 
are  a  born  actress." 

The  ends  of  the  straight  line  got  a  good  start 
upwards,  but  were  brought  back  with  a  jerk. 

"Are  you  going  to  the  commencement  exer- 
cises, Faith?"  Offended  dignity  took  instant 
flight,  and  Faith's  eyes  sparkled  with  animation. 

"Yes,  I'm  going.     Are  you?" 

"Yes,  if  nothing  happens  to  prevent." 

"I  meant  that,  too.  If  nothing  happens  to 
prevent.  I  hope  it  won't  rain.  If  it  should 
rain,  I  believe  I  sh'd  die  with  disappointment. 
Oh,  no,  I  shouldn't"  she  hastily  added,  "but  I 
believe  it'd  break  my  heart.  I've  been  looking 
forward  to  it  for  four  years,  you  know.  Do 
you  believe  that  hearts  ever  really  break, 
Caleb?" 

"Yes,  I  can  think  of  something  that  I  believe 
would  break  my  heart." 

"But  not  about  this?" 

"No,  not  about  this." 


TOIylvIVER'S     FOOL  195 

"You'd  go  right  on  living,  though,  wouldn't 
you.  Aunt  Hannah  does  and  her  heart's  been 
broken  seven  times." 

"Yes,  I  suppose  I  should,  but  I  shouldn't 
want  to.     I  would  much  rather  die." 

"I  hope  you'll  never  be  so  disappointed  as 
all  that,"  said  Faith,  with  a  glance  of  sympathy 
into  the  upturned  face. 

"Would  you  pity  me.  Faith,  if  I  were  ?  would 
you  be  sorry  for  me?" 

"Why,  of  course,  but  that  wouldn't  help  you 
any."  Faith  scowled  a  little,  as  she  examined 
the  point  of  her  needle. 

"It  would  if  you  pitied  me  hard  enough  to — 
to—" 

"Oh!  oh  dear,  how  that  hurts!"  Faith 
grasped  her  left  thumb  and  looked  at  the  nail, 
her  face  drawn  with  pain. 

"Why,  what  did  you  do ?    Stick  your  finger?" 

"No.  I  ran  the  needle  away  under  my  thumb 
nail.     Oh !  how  it  hurts !" 

"Pound  it  for  about  half  a  minute  as  hard  as 
you  can  stand,  with  the  scissors  or  something — 
here,  my  knife  handle  will  do,  and  it'll  take  out 
every  bit  of  soreness.  I've  seen  mother  do  it 
hundreds  of  times.  Here.  Put  your  thumb 
down  on  the  seat,  nail  upwards,  and  I'll  pound 
it  for  you." 


196  TOIylvIVER'S    FOOL 

"No,  thank  you,  I  prefer  to  pound  it  myself. 
You  couldn't  tell  how  much  I  could  stand,  could 
you?" 

"I  could  tell  nearly." 

"I  can  tell  exactly."  The  young  man  watched 
her  face  as  she  pounded  away  at  the  injured 
thumb. 

"Let  me  see,"  said  he  musingly.  "Today  is 
— is  Wednesday.     Is'n't  it.  Faith?" 

Faith's  lips  tightened  a  little,  but  she  was  not 
aware  of  it.  She  pounded  her  thumb  so  hard 
that  blood  rushed  to  her  cheeks. 

"And  tomorrow  is — Thursday,"  pursued  the 
young  man,  unaware  that  he  was  voicing  his 
calculation." 

"Yes,"  interrupted  Faith,  handing  him  the 
knife.  "Tomorrow  is  Thursday,  and  the  next 
day  is  Friday.  Thursday  always  comes  after 
Wednesday." 

"Is— is— " 

"No,  she  isn't  coming  this  week.  She  is 
next,  though." 

"How  did  you  know  what  I  was  going  to 
ask  ?     Are  you  a  mind-reader  ?" 

"Because  you  always  ask  that  question." 

"Do  I?" 

"Yes." 

"Always?" 


TOLLIVER'S    FOOI^  197 

"Yes,  always." 

"Strange,  isn't  it?" 

"No,  I  don't  think  that  it  is.  I  talk  about  the 
things  I  think  about,  and  I  suppose  other  folks 
do." 

"Other  folks  don't,"  was  the  quick  retort, 
"they  talk  of  everything  else  first ;  at  least  some 
folks  do." 

"Daddy  has  come.  I  must  go  in  now  and 
get  supper."  Faith  folded  her  work  with 
nervous  haste.  She  did  not  know  why,  but  a 
vague  feeling  of  alarm  possessed  her. 

"That  means,"  said  the  young  man,  striking 
a  crease  in  the  crown  of  his  soft  hat,  "Caleb 
Garland,  will  you  be  good  enough  to  go  home  ?" 
Faith  laughed  constrainedly. 

Caleb  had  risen  and  was  looking  down  at  her. 

"How  pretty  those  red  roses  look  behind 
you,  Faith,"  He  meant,  "how  pretty  you  look 
with  those  red  roses  behind  you,"  but  he  hadn't 
the  courage  to  say  it. 

Caleb  Garland  was  studying  for  the  ministry 
under  the  tutelage  of  his  uncle,  the  Rev.  Elisha 
Garland,  whose  home  was  in  Hazen.  Caleb 
lived  with  his  parents  on  a  small  but  valuable 
fruit  farm,  situated  on  a  bend  of  the  Wellwood 
river,  three  quarters  of  a  mile  from  the  Tolli- 
vers,  where  they  had  recently  taken  up  their 


198  TOLrLIVER'S    FOOL, 

residence.  Two  days  of  each  week,  Monday 
and  Wednesday,  Caleb  spent  in  study  and 
recitation  with  his  uncle  in  Hazen.  On  his  way 
home,  he  was  wont  to  loiter  at  the  Tolliver 
gate,  under  the  big  tree  where  he  loved  to 
spend  the  hour  between  four  and  five  in  rest 
and  conversation  with  Faith. 

That  Caleb  was  in  love  with  Amanda,  Faith 
had  no  doubt.  That  Amanda  was  in  love  with 
Benjamin  Curtice,  she  felt  certain,  and  to  her 
dismay  it  had  suddenly  dawned  upon  her  that 
her  own  heart  was  fast  getting  beyond  her  con- 
trol. Her  cheeks  burned  with  shame  at  the 
thought,  and  she  bravely  resolved  to  crush  her 
love  at  any  cost  to  herself.  So  she  at  once 
began  a  process  of  self  torture,  than  which  no 
better  fertilizer  for  love  is  known,  and  the  next 
time  Caleb  Garland  called  at  the  Tolliver  gate. 
Faith  was  not  to  be  seen.  He  took  a  seat  under 
the  tree  and  waited;  looking  now  and  then 
towards  the  house.  Faith  was  busying  herself 
about  the  kitchen.  She  saw  him  come  in  at 
the  gate  and  seat  himself  under  the  tree,  but  she 
would  not  allow  herself  the  pleasure  of  a  second 
view  of  him.  Something  suggested  to  her  that 
she  could  easily  look  at  him  through  the  vines 
that  covered  the  kitchen  window,  without  being 
seen,  but  she  refused  herself  even  this  meagre 


TOLLIVER'S    FOOIv  199 

pleasure.  When  at  last  she  heard  the  gate 
creak  and  swing  shut,  she  sprang  to  the 
window.  He  was  just  turning  away  and  she 
saw  that  there  was  disappointment  in  his  face. 
"I  suppose,"  thought  Faith,  as  she  turned 
sadly  from  the  window,  "That  he  enjoys  talk- 
ing with  me  because  I'm  Mandy's  sister.  I 
understand  some  things  now  better  than  I  did. 
I  know  now  why  I  kept  that  piece  of  paper  that 
he  wrote  my  name  on  and  the  button  off  his 
vest,  and  why  I  have  taken  to  studying  Mandy's 
old  books.  Oh,  yes,  I  know  all  about  it  now. 
I  was  just  going  to  be  in  love  with  him,  and  I'm 
glad  I  found  it  out  in — in  time."  There  was  a 
protesting  throb  of  pain  in  her  heart,  but  with 
her  head  held  high  and  her  lips  compressed  she 
began  a  search  for  hard  work;  it  was  not  yet 
time  to  get  supper.  She  put  on  the  kettle  and 
began  mixing  dyes  to  color  the  stocking  yarn. 
She  usually  had  the  winter  stockings  well  under 
way  before  June,  but  this  year  she  had  been 
dilatory;  she  had  preferred  sitting  under  the 
trees  sewing  lace  on  handkerchiefs  to  knitting 
coarse  socks. 

When  the  liquid  in  the  kettle  was  ready  for 
use,  instead  of  using  a  stick  to  stir  the  yarn  as 
had  always  been  their  custom,  she  plunged  her 
hands  into  the  dye,  taking  pains  to  color  her 


200  TOLLIVER'S    FOOL 

wrists  and  arms  as  much  as  possible.  She  took 
a  morbid  pleasure  in  it.  She  was  thinking  at 
the  time  how  white  and  delicate  Amanda's 
hands  had  grown,  and  also,  that  she  would  show 
Caleb  she  didn't  care  how  her  own  hands 
looked,  and  she  hoped  that  it  would  also  serve 
to  convince  him,  in  case  he  had  any  doubt  about 
it,  that  she  cared  nothing  for  him  or  for  his 
opinion.  There  was  nothing  for  her  to  do, 
anyway,  but  to  stay  at  home  and  take  care  of 
Wallie  as  long  as  she  lived.  Even  if  Caleb 
loved  her  instead  of  her  sister,  she  could  neyer 
marry  him;  so  it  was  best  as  it  was,  and  she 
plunged  her  fair  arms  still  deeper  into  the 
purple  dye. 

The  following  afternoon,  while  on  his  way  to 
the  Corners,  Caleb  halted  at  the  Tolliver  gate. 
He  could  see  a  yellow  head  moving  about  over 
the  tops  of  the  bushes.  Faith  thought  she 
looked  very  ugly  with  her  curls  twisted  into  a 
knot  and  stuck  through  with  a  knitting-needle, 
but  she  had  never  made  a  greater  mistake. 
Knowing  that  it  was  his  time  for  study,  she 
was  not  looking  for  a  call  from  her  young  man 
friend  at  this  hour. 

She  was  hanging  the  dyed  yarn  on  the  garden 
fence  to  dry  when  he  walked  up  to  the  gate,  and 
she  was  just  stooping  to  take  another  skein 


TOLIylVER'S    FOOIy  201 

from  the  basket  when  he  stepped  through  the 
bushes  and  stood  beside  her.  Faith,  a  Httle 
startled,  straightened  up,  and  a  rich  color  swept 
over  her  face. 

"Why,  Caleb  Garland !  How  did  you  get  in 
without  squeaking  the  gate?"  she  demanded. 

"I  jumped  over  it.  Didn't  you  see  me 
coming?" 

"No.  How  did  you — why,  I  thought — don't 
you  have  to  get  your  lessons?"  she  stammered 
out,  shaking  a  skein  of  the  wet  yarn  into  a 
tangle  in  a  vain  endeavor  to  hide  her  nervous- 
ness. 

"Yes,  but  I'm  going  to  the  Corners  on  an 
errand.  I — saw  you  out  here — and — I  thought 
I'd  stop — a  minute,  just  to  speak  to  you — 
and—" 

"Well,  you  see  I'm  very  busy,"  she  inter- 
rupted, and  shaking  out  another  skein  of  yarn 
she  turned  her  back  to  him  and  spread  it  on 
the  fence.  "I  shall  be  busy  all  day,  too,"  she 
continued,  "because  Mandy's  coming  home  to- 
morrow; she  changed  her  mind."  Faith,  turn- 
ing, glanced  into  Caleb's  face  to  note  the 
expected  glow  of  pleasure,  but  there  was  no 
sign  of  pleasure  in  his  face;  his  lips  paled 
slightly  and  a  pained  look  came  into  the  dark, 
expressive  eyes  but  he  drew  himself  up  proudly. 


202  TOLLIVER'S    FOOL 

"I'm  sorry  I  troubled  you,  Faith.  I  beg  your 
pardon.  I  can  take  a  hint,  and  I — shall  also — 
take  my  leave."  He  stood  a  moment  with  his 
hat  in  his  hand  as  if  waiting  for  her  to  speak. 
Faith  wished  to  say  something;  to  offer  an 
apology  for  her  rudeness,  but  instead  of  doing 
so,  she  shook  out  another  skein  of  yarn  and 
hung  it  on  the  fence.  She  wondered  why  she 
did  it.  She  made  up  her  mind,  as  she  patted 
and  spread  out  the  yarn,  that  she  would  ask  his 
pardon,  but  when  she  turned  to  do  so,  he  had 
gone.  She  leaned  her  forehead  against  a  tree 
and  sobbed  aloud,  in  an  abandonment  of  grief. 

"Oh,  how  my  heart  aches !"  she  moaned.  "It 
seems  as  if  it  would  kill  me,  and  I  almost  wish 
it  would."  Her  hands  suddenly  dropped  from 
her  face  over  which  crept  an  expression  of  per- 
plexity and  wonder. 

"Yes,  that's  it;  I  understand  it  now;  my  heart 
is  breaking.  That's  why  it  pains  me  so.  My 
heart  is  breaking.  Oh,  how  it  hurts!  If 
Caleb  feels  like  this  about  Mandy,  I  do  pity 
him.     I  wish  I  hadn't  been  cross  to  him." 

It  was  Friday  afternoon.  Amanda  had  just 
come  home,  and  was  seated  at  the  kitchen 
window. 

"How  nice  and  clean  everything  looks.  Faith, 
and  you've  got  all  the  yarn  dyed,  too,  hav'n't 


TOLLIVER'S    FOOL  203 

you?  But,  Faith,  for  mercy's  sake,  don't  ever 
again  put  your  hands  into  the  dye;  there's  no 
need  of  it.     It  makes  you  look  a  fright." 

"Oh,  I  don't  care;  nobody  ever  sees  me." 

"Why,  yes  they  do,  too.  Aunt  Hannah  said 
that  Caleb  Garland  came  often  to  see  you,  and 
I  tell  you,  Faith  Tolliver,  there  are  few  girls 
who  wouldn't  be  glad  to  see  him  coming  any 
day.  He's  handsome,  well  educated,  has  good 
connections,  good  habits,  and  is  well  off.  What 
more  could  a  girl  ask  ?" 

"It's  no  such  thing;  he  don't  come  to  see 
me !"  replied  Faith,  with  a  flush  of  indignation. 
"He  just  stops  to  rest  a  few  minutes  at  the  gate. 
He's  never  been  in  the  house  once." 

"Of  course  he  wouldn't  go  into  the  house 
when  you're  alone.  It  wouldn't  be  proper. 
Certainly  he  comes  to  see  you.  There's  no  one 
else  here." 

"I  tell  you  he  does  not,"  cried  Faith, 
snappishly.  "He  comes  to  rest  and  ask  about 
you.  He  always  asks  when  you're  coming 
home,  and — and  lots  of  things  about  you." 

"Does  he?"  asked  Amanda,  flushing  with 
pleasure,  and,  turning  her  head,  she  glanced  at 
herself  in  the  glass. 

Amanda  and  Faith  walked  out  under  the  tree 
by  the  gate. 


204  TOLLIVER'S    FOOL 

"What  time  did  you  say  he  usually  passes 
Faith?  or,  rather,  doesn't  pass." 

"About  four  o'clock,  but  this  is  Friday;  he 
doesn't  go  to  Hazen  on  Fridays.  I  presume 
he'll  call  though,  because  I  told  him  you  were 
coming  home." 

"I  do  hope,  Faith,  that  you  can  get  that  color 
off  before  the  graduating  exercises,  it  looks,  oh, 
it  looks—" 

"Oh,  yes,  long  before.     It's  two  weeks  yet." 

"I  don't  see  what  in  the  world  possessed  you 
to  put  your  hands  into  the  dye,  anyway;  there 
was  no  necessity  for  it." 

"Oh,  I  felt  kind  of— desprit  that  day ;  I  didn't 
care." 

"Desperate?  You,  desperate!  Faith  Tolli- 
ver!  What  in  the  world  made  you  desperate? 
I  didn't  suppose  anything  could  make  you — " 

"There,  I  told  you,  didn't  I?  interrupted 
Faith,  glad  to  divert  attention  from  herself. 

"Told  me  what?" 

"That  Caleb  would  come.  There  he  is 
coming  towards  the  gate.  Now  be  decent  to 
him,  Mandy." 

"  *Be  decent  to  him !'  What  an  insinuation ! 
Of  course  I  shall.  Did  you  ever  know  me  to 
be  otherwise?  How  do  you  do,  Caleb. 
Aren't  you  coming  in?"  asked  Amanda  with 
one  of  her  sweetest  smiles.     Amanda's  smile 


TOLLIVER'S    FOOL  205 

was  the  admiration  and  envy  of  her  friends  and 
foes. 

"Well,  I  don't  know,"  replied  the  young 
man,  halting  outside  the  gate,  then,  as  if  limited 
for  time,  he  looked  at  his  watch,  and  gave  a 
quick  glance  at  Faith,  saying: 

"You  look  very  comfortable  there  in  the 
shade." 

Faith  felt  that  she  ought  to  add  a  word  as 
their  last  parting  had  been  rather  strained,  but 
she  was  afraid  of  saying  too  much. 

"We  are  comfortable,"  she  ventured  at  last, 
"but  don't  you  think  we  look  rather  lonesome  ?" 

With  a  grateful  smile  for  reply,  he  opened 
the  gate  and  stepped  through. 

"Don't  disturb  yourselves,  girls,  this  is  my 
favorite  place  isn't  it.  Faith?"  and  Caleb  threw 
himself  upon  the  grass  and  leaned  his  head 
against  a  tree.  Faith  flushed  and  looked  down 
at  her  purple  hands  that  lay  idle  in  her  lap.  She 
felt  an  impulse  to  cover  them  with  her  apron, 
but  she  immediately  decided  that  to  do  so 
would  look  as  if  she  cared. 

While  these  thoughts  were  passing  in  her 
mind,  Amanda  and  Caleb  became  engaged 
in  conversation.  Amanda  had  just  expressed 
herself  as  being  shocked  to  hear  that  one  of  her 
schoolmates  was  going  to  be  married  soon  after 
graduating. 


206  TOLLIVER'S    FOOL 

"I  don't  see  why  you  are  shocked  because  a 
girl  is  going  to  get  married  after  she  gradu- 
ates," observed  Caleb,  with  a  languid  air.  "All 
girls  get  married,  don't  they  ?  Minnie  Severs  is 
also  going  to  be  married  after  she  graduates. 
It  seems  to  be  the  fashion." 

"Yes,  it  does,"  replied  Amanda,  "but  Minnie 
is  old  enough  to  get  married;  she's  about  my 
age ;  but  Mabel  is  a  child ;  she's  just  the  age  of 
Faith.  Fancy  Faith  getting  married!"  Both 
turned  their  eyes  upon  Faith,  who  sat  a  little 
apart  with  her  back  to  the  rose  bush.  She  raised 
her  eyes  for  a  moment  and  looked  from  the  one 
to  the  other  in  silence. 

"Faith  shall  not  think  of  marrying  for  five 
years  yet,  if  I  have  anything  to  say  about  it," 
continued  Amanda. 

"You're  wasting  your  time  in  discussing  me," 
declared  Faith,  with  more  warmth  than  she 
wished  to  show,  "for  I'm  never  going  to  be 
married." 

"What,  never?"  asked  her  sister,  elevating 
her  eyebrows. 

"No,  never !  Never  as  long  as  I  live."  Caleb 
gave  her  a  penetrating  look  and  her  glance  fell. 

"Don't  talk  so  foolishly.  Faith.  Of  course 
you'll  marry  when  you're  old  enough,"  urged 
Amanda. 


TOLIylVER'S    FOOL  307 

"I  tell  you  I  never  will.  It's  the  fashion  for 
girls  to  graduate  and  then  marry,"  retorted 
Faith,  hotly.  "You  just  said  so.  My  mind  is 
made  up  about  marrying,  and  I  shan't  change 
it  to  please  you  or  anyone  else.  It  isn't  likely 
that  I  shall  ever  get  a  chance,  but  I  shall  not 
marry  if  I  do."  Caleb  saw,  as  she  glanced  up 
with  a  flash  of  her  eyes,  that  they  were  glassy 
with  tears,  and  that  her  lips  were  tremulous.  He 
adroitly  turned  the  conversation,  the  while 
wondering  what  could  be  the  cause  of  the  sud- 
den change  in  her  manner,  and  if  by  word  or 
look  she  had  discovered  his  secret  and  wished 
to  forwarn  him. 

"Speaking  of  marriage,"  observed  Caleb,  "re- 
minds me.  Prof.  Gordon  is  engaged  to  Cora 
Brainard.  He  is  the  manager  of  the  'Argus,' 
you  know." 

"That  old  man!"  ejaculated  Amanda,  with  a 
toss  of  her  young  head. 

"I  suppose  they  would  like  to  be  alone," 
thought  Faith,  as  she  rose  from  her  seat  and 
started  towards  the  house.  Amanda's  eyes, 
with  a  dreamy  expression,  followed  her  sister  as 
she  walked  away. 

"Faith  is  a  dear  girl.  I  can't  imagine  what 
made  her  so  cross  just  now.  Doesn't  her  hair 
look  pretty  in  the  sun?" 


208  TOLWVER'S    FOOL 

"She  doesn't  mean  all  she  says,  does  she?" 
There  was  appeal  in  the  young  man's  eyes  as 
he  raised  them  to  Amanda's  face. 

"Yes,  I  think  she  means  it.  Faith  never  says 
what  she  doesn't  mean.  I  hope  she'll  change 
her  mind,  though." 

"Do  you  think  she  will?  That  is — is  she  in- 
clined to  change  her  mind?" 

"No.  If  she  has  ever  changed  her  mind 
about  anything,  I  can't  remember  it.  I  know 
she  would,  however,  if  she  were  convinced  that 
she  was  in  the  wrong,  for  she's  not  unreason- 
able nor  stubborn,  only  firm  when  she  believes 
she's  right." 

"Has  her  resolution  to  remain  single  any- 
thing to  do  with — your  brother?" 

"Yes,  it  has  all  to  do  with  it.  She  thinks  she 
ought  to  devote  her  life  to  the  care  of  Wallie, 
and  that  she  couldn't  do  it  if  she  married.  She 
fancies  that  mother  wishes  her  to,  and  neither 
father  or  I  can  argue  her  out  of  it.  Faith 
adores  Wallie.  She'll  stop  anything  to  amuse 
him." 

"And  he?    Does  he  appreciate  it?" 

"No,  indeed.  He  doesn't  appreciate  any- 
thing.   There  she  comes." 

Faith  had  come  out  of  the  house  and  stood 
in  the  sun  shading  her  eyes  with  her  hand. 


TOLLrlVER'S     FOOL,  209 

"Supper  is  almost  ready,  Mandy.  Won't  you 
come  in  and  have  some  with  us,  Caleb?"  She 
was  smiling,  and  the  sun  brought  out  the  rich 
gold  in  her  yellow  brown  hair.  Amanda  smiled 
into  the  young  man's  admiring  eyes. 

"She's  pretty,  isn't  she,  Caleb?" 

"She's  more  than  that,  a  hundred  times  more. 
She's  beautiful,  and  growing  more  so  every 
day." 

"Yes,  and  good,  too,"  declared  Amanda. 

"Yes,  and  good,  too,"  he  repeated.  Faith 
turned  suddenly  without  another  word  and 
walked  back  into  the  house.  She  walked  more 
proudly  than  usual — the  yellow  head  was  held 
higher,  because  she  was  hurt. 

"He's  so  taken  up  with  Mandy  he  couldn't 
even  see  me ;  didn't  answer  me  when  I  invited 
him  to  have  supper  with  us,"  she  thought,  as, 
with  a  choking  sensation  in  her  throat,  she 
drew  the  tea  and  sliced  the  bread. 

"Wallie  eats  at  the  table  now,  does  he, 
Faith?"  Amanda  had  come  in  and  seated  her- 
self in  the  rocking-chair  close  to  the  vine-cov- 
ered window. 

"Yes,  he  does.    Who  told  you?" 

"Why,  you  did.  You  wrote  me  about  it. 
Don't  you  remember?" 

"Oh,  yes,  so  I  did." 

N 


210  TOLLIVER'S     FOOL 

"How  does  he  behave?" 

"Just  like  anybody  else.  He  doesn't  talk 
much,  though." 

"Good  thing,  I  should  say.  I  never  could 
bear  to  hear  him  talk.  Does  he  eat  with  his 
fingers?" 

"No,  he  eats  just  like  anybody  else;  he  has 
eaten  at  the  table  ever  since  the  time  he  ate 
dinner  with  the  Courtland  boys.  Poor  boy, 
he's  working  so  hard  today  helping  Mr.  Nathan 
put  up  a  lightning  rod,  but  I  don't  suppose  he 
knows  what  it's  for." 

"I'm  not  so  sure  about  that.  Faith.  He 
knows  more  than  he  appears  to ;  he's  very  keen 
about  some  things." 

"Yes,  I  know  he  is.  And  did  you  ever  no- 
tice, Mandy,  that  he  knows  some  things  he 
never  learned — that  he  never  could  have 
learned  from  any  of  us  ?  For  none  of  us  knew 
enough  to  teach  him." 

"Yes,  I've  noticed  it.  It's  unaccountable. 
I  never  could  make  it  out." 

"I  can.  It's  plain  enough  to  me,"  said  Faith 
as  she  poured  the  hot  water  into  the  teapot. 

"Well!  Would  you  be  good  enough  to  en- 
lighten me,  Madam  Minerva,  to  give  me  one 
little  measure  from  your  storehouse  of  wis- 
dom?"    Amanda's  cheeks  dimpled. 


TOIvLIVER'S    FOOIy  211 

"God  knows,"  replied  the  younger  sister, 
seriously,  "that  Wallie  can't  reason  things  out 
as  we  do,  so  out  of  pity  for  him,  he  gives  him  a 
few  things  'out  of  hand,'  as  it  were — already 
reasoned  out." 

"What  a  strange  idea.  Faith.  Do  you  sup- 
pose the  Almighty  would  pay  so  much  atten- 
tion as  all  that  to  a  fool  ?" 

"Why,  certainly.  Don't  the  bible  say  that 
not  even  a  little  sparrow  can  fall  to  the  ground 
without  His  notice?  Daddy  says  he  was 
brighter  than  any  of  us  before  he  got  hurt. 
And  you  oughtn't  to  call  him  a  fool,  Mandy.  I 
don't  see  how  anybody  can  look  at  Wallie's  big, 
beautiful  eyes  and  call  him  a  fool." 

"Oh,  I  didn't  mean  any  harm.  Faith,  only, 
you  know,  everybody  calls  him  our  'fool;'  be- 
hind our  backs,  of  course." 

"Everybody  doesn't,"  asserted  Faith,  with  an 
indignant  flash  of  her  eyes.  "Only  heartless 
people  or  people  who  never  take  time  to  think." 

"I  should  like  to  know  what  has  come  over 
you.  Faith;  you're  so  ill-tempered.  So  I'm 
either  heartless,  or  never  think.  Which  is  it, 
little  sister?"     Faith  made  no  reply. 

'•'Oh,  never  mind,"  admonished  Amanda, 
mockingly,  "you  needn't  answer  me;  it  isn't 
worth  while.     To  settle  it,  we'll  say  that  I  am 


212  TOLLIVER'S    FOOL 

both  heartless  and  unthinking.  Now,  we'll 
talk  about  something  else.  I'm  heartbroken 
about  my  dress,  Faith.  It  makes  me  faint  to 
think  of  it." 

"Why,  what's  the  matter?  Did  Miss  Fan- 
ning spoil  it  in  the  making?" 

"No,  it's  all  right  what  there  is  of  it,  but  it 
is  just  as  I  feared ;  there  was  not  enough  for  an 
overskirt.  All  the  girls  are  having  them ; 
they're  the  latest  thing,  and  my  dress  is  just  a 
plain  straight  skirt,  the  same  as  they  wore  last 
year.  I  could  cry  about  it.  Every  one  of  the 
girls  but  Mary  Powers  and  me  are  having  over- 
skirts.  I  declare,  I'd  rather  have  a  common 
white  muslin  dress  with  an  overskirt  than  a 
white  silk  without  one.  I  don't  see  why  Uncle 
Dick  didn't  get  a  little  more  while  he  was 
about  it;  he  might  at  least  have  asked  me  how 
much  I  wanted.  There's  no  need  of  his  being 
so  stingy,  as  much  money  as  he  has." 

"Why,  Mandy  Tolliver !  After  his  giving  you 
that  beautiful  dress.  You  ought  to  be 
ashamed." 

"Well,  there  isn't  enough.  Why  didn't  he 
ask  how  much  it  would  take?" 

"I  don't  suppose  Uncle  Dick  thought  any- 
thing about  an  overskirt,  mebbe  he  never  saw 
one.    What  are  they  like?" 


TOLIvIVER'S    FOOL  213 

"Come  on  up  stairs  and  I'll  show  you.  I 
brought  my  dress  home  so  you  could  see  it." 

"After  supper,  Mandy;  father's  coming-  in 
now,  and  there  comes  Wallie,  just  as  warm  and 
tired  as  he  can  be,  poor  boy." 

"He's  washing  himself.  Faith,"  whispered 
Amanda,  peeping  through  the  vines.  "How 
have  you  taught  him  that?" 

"I  never  taught  him ;  I  couldn't ;  I  tried  hard 
enough;  but  he  has  washed  himself  before 
every  meal,  whether  he  needed  it  or  not,  ever 
since  he  worked  at  Mr.  Garland's  and  saw  the 
men  wash.  I  think  that  shows  how  much  bet- 
ter example  is  than  anything  we  can  say.  He 
has  never  played  pig  since  that  day." 

"Hush,  Faith.  If  he  should  hear  you  it  might 
make  him  think  of  it." 

"Now,"  said  the  younger  sister,  after  supper 
was  over  and  she  had  seated  herself  on  the  edge 
of  Amanda's  bed,  "tell  me  what  an  overskirt  is 
like.  I  never  saw  one.  I'm  curious,  and  if  it 
wouldn't  take  too  much,  mebbe  I  have  enough 
silk  left  to  make  you  one." 

"Oh,  Faith,  dear!    How  much  have  you?" 

"A  little  over  two  yards."  Amanda  turned 
away  with  a  sigh  of  disappointment. 

"That  would  be  just  about  half  enough, 
Faith.  I'll  show  you  what  they  are  like.  Give 
me  your  skirt." 


214  TOLLIVER'S    FOOL 

Amanda  put  her  sister's  silk  skirt  on  over  her 
own,  and  looped  it  up  here  and  there  with  the 
bows  of  pink  ribbon  that  Hannah  Weaver  had 
given  Faith  to  wear  with  her  new  dress.  Faith 
clapped  her  hands  with  delight. 

"Oh,  Mandy,  it's  beautiful,  beautiful!  It 
makes  you  look  just  like  a  picture ;  and  it's  the 
overskirt  that  does  it.  Oh,  Mandy,  if  we  could 
only  have  overskirts!  How  much  will  it  take 
for  two?  I've  got  about  two  yards  and  an 
eighth." 

"It  would  take  four  yards  for  each  overskirt. 
There's  no  use  in  talking  about  it;  it's  a  waste 
of  time."  And  Amanda,  throwing  the  skirts 
over  a  chair,  gave  way  to  tears;  an  unusual 
thing  for  her. 

Faith  was  deeply  moved.  Tears  often  filled 
her  own  eyes,  but  to  see  her  sister  weep  was  an- 
other thing.  She  sat  up  straight,  and  with  tear- 
less eyes  looked  at  the  limp  little  skirts  hanging 
over  the  chair-back,  then  at  her  sobbing  sister. 
She  was  weighing  the  hopes  she  had  cherished 
for  four  years  against  the  tears  of  Amanda.  An 
expression  settled  on  her  face  that  seemed  to 
rob  it  of  some  of  its  natural  sweetness ;  to  have 
a  straightening  efifect  in  the  curves  of  her  lips. 
She  gave  her  weeping  sister  a  little  push. 

"Come,   Mandy,   get  up;  you'll  make  your 


TOLLIVER'S    FOOIy  215 

headache.  I  know  what  we  can  do ;  I've  got  it 
all  fixed.  Come,  get  up ;  you're  frowsling  your 
hair;  I  tell  you  I've  got  it  all  planned."  Faith's 
voice  had  in  it  no  note  of  sympathy,  only  the 
cold  tone  of  decision  and  determination. 
Amanda  rose  and  seated  herself  in  the  little 
rocking-chair,  her  face  a  picture  of  distress. 

"Well,  how  have  you  g — g — got  it  fixed,  I 
should  like  to  know?  How  are  we  going  to 
b — b — buy  six  yards  of  silk  and  get  two  over- 
skirts  made  out  o'  nothing?" 

"We're  not  going  to  buy  any  silk  nor  get  any 
overskirts  made.  You're  going  to  wear  my 
skirt  for  an  overskirt,  just  as  it's  fixed  now,  with 
the  ribbons  an'  all,  and  I'm  not  going." 

"Well,  you  are  going,"  asserted  Mandy, 
straightening  up. 

"No,  I'm  not.  I've  been  thinking  it  over, 
and  I've  made  up  my  mind  that  it  would  be  bet- 
ter for  one  of  us  to  go  well  dressed  than  for 
both  of  us  to  go  poorly  dressed." 

"We  shouldn't  be  poorly  dressed,  only  out  of 
fashion." 

"Well,  out  of  fashion,  then.  You've  got  to 
be  there,  and  I  haven't." 

"But,  Faith,  you've  been  counting  on  it  so 
long!    I  hate  to  disappoint  you." 

"Yes,  I  know  I've  been  counting  on  it,  but 


216  .   TOIyLIVER'S    FOOIv 

why  couldn't  you  dress  up  afterwards  and  read 
it  here?  You  could  stand  up  on  the  kitchen 
table,  I  could  sit  in  the  front  room  and  look  at 
you  from  away  off,  and  I  could  imagine  the 
house  full  of  people." 

Faith  swung  one  foot  and  gazed  at  a  burly 
knot  in  the  floor.  Already  she  had,  in  her  imag- 
ination, a  large  and  appreciative  audience  in 
the  front  room,  and  Amanda,  in  her  white  dress, 
standing  on  the  kitchen  table. 

"Faith  Tolliver !    Do  you  mean  it?" 

"Why,  certainly  I  do.  What  do  you  suppose 
I'm  talking  for?  There  is  no  use  for  you  to  say 
anything,  for  I've  made  up  my  mind."  So  it 
was  settled,  as  things  usually  were  when  Faith 
announced  that  she  "had  made  up  her  mind." 
After  the  sisters  went  to  bed  that  night  Faith 
covered  her  head  with  the  bed  clothes,  and 
sweetened  with  her  tears  the  bitterest  disap- 
pointment that  she  had  ever  known. 

It  was  early  Monday  morning.  A  fringe  of 
golden  light  had  just  appeared  in  the  east,  as 
Amanda  and  Faith  walked  out  to  the  road.  The 
grass  was  wet  with  a  heavy  dew,  and  the  sweet 
spirit  of  a  new-born  day  pervaded  the  air. 

"I  do  feel  so  mean  about  taking  your  skirt, 
Faith.  I  believe  you'd  go  and  wear  it  yourself 
if  I  just  wouldn't  take  it." 


TOLIvIVER'S    FOOL  217 

"No.  I've  made  up  my  mind,  now,  Mandy, 
and  I  sha'n't  change  it.  You  might  just  as  well 
keep  the  skirt  till  you  come  home.  I  shall  not 
want  it,  and  you  may  need  it  again." 

"Very  well,  Faith,  I'll  be  careful  with  it.  Now 
don't  forget  the  roses." 

"No,  I  won't.     Good-by." 

"Good-by.  Oh,  Faith!  Don't  make  my 
aprons  so  stiff  as  you  did  the  last  time,  and,  say. 
Faith."  Amanda  walked  back  a  few  steps.  "Do 
you  remember  the  day  we  sat  upon  the  hillside 
by  the  brook  and  I  told  you  how  I  longed  to  go 
to  school  and  graduate?" 

"Yes,  I  remember  it.  I  remember  just  how 
the  clouds  looked  that  day,  and  I  remember  the 
sound  of  the  bells  and  the  brook.  I've  never 
been  a  little  girl  since ;  that  day  was  the  last." 

"Now,  I'm  going  to  have  my  wish.  Faith," 
pursued  Amanda,  deaf  to  her  sister's  reminis- 
cence.   "I'm  so  glad  and  so  happy." 

"So'm  I,"  said  Faith,  smiling.  "I  kind  of  wish 
I  could  graduate,  too,  Mandy." 

"Do  you.  Faith?  Well,  maybe  you  can, 
Good-by  till  after." 

"Yes,  good-by  till  after." 

"Don't  forget  to  send  the  roses,  Faith.  Mary 
Powers  is  going  to  send  a  big  bunch  of  pure 
white  ones  up  to  me,  and  I'm  going  to  send 


218  TOLLIVER'S    FOOL 

some  red  ones  up  to  her.  Don't  tell  anyone; 
we  wouldn't  have  the  others  know  it  for  the 
world  'n'  all." 

"No,  I  won't ;  you  needn't  be  afraid." 

The  commencement  day  came  at  last  with 
lagging  feet;  each  hour  of  the  preceding  week 
having  been  called  upon  to  render  an  account 
of  its  minutes. 

"I  guess  I'll  ride  to  Hazen  on  hoss  back, 
Faithful,  if  you're  goin'  with  yer  aunt  in  the 
kirridge.  I've  got  Nate  Courtland  to  come 
over  and  stay  with  Wallie.  He'll  be  as  happy 
as  a  pig  in  high  clover  every  minute  o'  the  time. 
Give  me  the  posies  if  you  want  me  to  take  'em." 

Faith  watched  her  father  ride  away,  then  she 
walked  aimlessly  about  the  two  little  rooms. 
She  was  not  in  her  usually  pacific  frame  of 
mind. 

"Oh,  dear!"  she  burst  out  at  last,  wringing 
her  hands,  "what  shall  I  tell  Aunt  Hannah  when 
she  comes?  She'd  never  forgive  Mandy  if  she 
knew — she'd  be  sure  to  blame  her,  and  Mandy 
isn't  a  mite  to  blame;  I  just  made  her  take  it; 
she  couldn't  help  herself.  I  wish  my  head  ached 
harder — it  does  ache  a  little,  really.  There — an- 
other pain  shot  through  my  temple.  I  b'lieve 
my  head  is  honestly  going  to  ache.  Mebbe  it's 
because  I  stayed  awake  nearly  all  night,  think- 


TOI^LIVER'S     FOOIv  219 

ing.  Oh,  goody,  there  comes  Caleb — I  most 
wish  I  had  my  skirt," 

"Why,  what's  the  matter,  Faith?  You  don't 
look — are  you  quite  well?"  Faith  pushed  a 
chair  towards  her  visitor.  "No,  thank  you,  I 
prefer  a  door-step  to  a  rocking-chair,  anytime. 
Are  you  well  this  morning,  Faith?" 

"No,  I'm  not  well.  I'm  not  well  at  all.  Do  I 
look  pale?"  An  amused  look  passed  over  the 
young  man's  face. 

"No,  I  can't  say  that  you  look  pale,  your 
cheeks  are  more  flushed  than  usual,  in  fact,  but 
you  look  worried." 

"Don't  folks  ever  have  headache  when  their 
cheeks  are  red?"  Caleb  smiled  and  then  laughed 
outright. 

"Yes,  sometimes,  if  they  are  feverish,"  he  re- 
plied. 

"If  you  laugh  at  me,  Caleb  Garland,  I'll  never 
speak  to  you,"  declared  Faith,  with  a  pout  that 
was  half  smile. 

"Well,  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  you  had  a  spell 
of  headache  coming  on — you  look  like  it;  but 
it  may  come  too  late  to  suit  your  purpose." 

"You're  just  as  unkind  as  you  can  be.  I'll 
never  again  as  long  as  I  live  tell  you — " 

"You  haven't  told  me  anything.  Why  don't 
you  trust  me.  Faith?    Tell  me  all  about  it,  and 


220  TOLIvIVER'S    FOOL 

let  me  help  you.  You  don't  wish  to  go  to  Hazen 
today,  and  you  are  trying  to  be  ill.  Eh?  Now 
be  honest." 

"I  can't  go,  Caleb.    It's  impossible." 

"Does  Mandy  expect  you?" 

"No.    She  knows  I  can't  come." 

"Then  what's  the  matter  with  simply  staying 
at  home?" 

"Oh,  it  isn't  Mandy  I  care  about;  it's  Aunt 
Hannah ;  she's  the  trouble.  She's  the  one  I  don't 
know  how  to  manage.  She's  coming  -after  me, 
and  when  she  finds  I  can't  go,  she'll  blame 
Mandy,  and  Mandy  isn't  to  blame." 

"What  deep  and  terrible  plot  have  you  and 
Mandy  been  concocting  against  a  defenseless 
old  woman,  and  into  which  plot  I  am  to  be 
drawn  as  accessory  before  the  fact?  I  hope 
there's  no  bloodshed  in  it.  Faith ;  I  hope  you're 
not  going  to  kill  her  pet  cat  or  her  canary  bird. 
The  sight  of  innocent  blood  always  unnerves 
me.  Don't  sit  with  your  head  down  like  that, 
Faith.  Look  at  me;  I'm  going  now.  Good- 
by." 

Faith  heard  him  rise  and  step  down  upon  the 
gravel  walk.  She  raised  her  eyes,  but  not 
her  head,  and  smiled  sweetly. 

"Don't  worry  any  more  about  your  Aunt 
Hannah ;  she  won't  come  after  you."  With  this, 


TOIvLIVER'S     FOOL  221 

the  young  man  walked  to  the  gate,  mounted  his 
horse  and  rode  away. 

Gazing  down  the  road,  Faith  saw  the  rider 
disappear  in  the  grove ;  and  long  after  he  was 
out  of  sight  her  eyes  clung  to  the  vacancy  un- 
der the  arch  of  green  trees  that  clasped  hands 
over  the  roadway  leading  through  the  sparse 
wood.  This  natural  gateway  was  called  the 
"Green  Arch." 

"I  suppose,"  thought  she,  rising  to  go  into 
the  house,  "that  it's  because  I'm  Mandy's  sis- 
ter. It  must  be."  Faith  felt  much  relieved  in 
the  belief  that  her  Aunt  Hannah  would  be  likely 
to  drive  directly  to  Hazen,  and  she  felt  even 
more  relieved  since  she  had  convinced  herself 
that  she  was  really  not  very  well;  that  she  al- 
most had  a  headache. 

The  day  was  a  long,  lonely  one  for  Faith. 
Feeling  disinclined  to  engage  in  any  everyday 
work,  she  got  the  rag  bag,  tore  a  great  pile  of 
strips  and  began  the  braided  rug  she  had  for 
years  been  trying  to  find  time  to  make.  She  sat 
on  the  kitchen  porch  with  her  basket  and  ball, 
sewing  diligently  all  day.  When  Caleb  rode  up 
to  the  gate  late  in  the  afternoon  and  dis- 
mounted she  was  still  at  work. 

"Hello,  Faith.    How's  your  headache?" 


222  TOLIvIVER'S    FOOL 

"Oh,  I'm  so  glad  you've  come,  Caleb.  I  was 
getting  so  dreadfully — dreadfully — " 

"Lonesome?" 

"No.  Anxious  to  hear  about  Mandy."  Caleb 
looked  a  little  crestfallen.  "How  did  she  look? 
How  was  her  essay?  What  did  Aunt  Hannah 
say?  Sit  down  in  this  chair;  I'll  fix  it  so  it  won't 
rock.    There,  now,  tell  me  all  about  it." 

"Shall  I  hold  your  ball,  Faith?  See !  It's  try- 
ing to  get  away." 

"If  you  like.   Now,  how  did  she — " 

"She  looked  beautiful,  and  her  essay  was  the 
best  of  the  four."  Faith  gave  a  little  scream  of 
delight. 

"She  took  the  blue  ribbon  and  no  mistake," 
continued  Caleb. 

"What  blue  ribbon  ?"    Faith's  eyes  dilated. 

"Oh,  it's  only  a  saying  when  people,  or  rather 
horses  and  things  come  out — take  first  prize. 
She  got  the  dictionary  on  her  essay,  and  Miss 
Cutler  got  a  copy  of  Mrs.  Hemans,  as  second 
prize.  Some  one  sent  Mandy  an  immense 
bunch  of  white  roses.  It  was  handed  her  by 
one  of  the  ushers  just  as  she  finished  reading." 

Enthusiasm  died  out  of  the  listener's  face, 
and  she  fixed  her  eyes  upon  the  restive  black 
horse  at  the  gate.  He  pricked  his  ears  forward 
now   and   then,    and,    standing   like    a   statue. 


TOLLIVER'S     FOOL  223 

gazed  at  the  two  on  the  kitchen  porch,  then 
round  and  round  the  post  he  swung,  winding 
and  unwinding  his  halter. 

"She  was  very  much  surprised,"  continued 
Caleb,  "for  flowers  are  rarely  given  at  the  Ha- 
zen  school.  At  first  she  thought  it  couldn't  be 
meant  for  her,  and  she  wasn't  going  to  take  it. 
She  shook  her  head  and  spoke  low  to  the  usher. 
He  turned  up  the  card  and  showed  her  the 
name — hers,  of  course,  then  she  took  it,  laid 
her  blushing  face  against  it,  and  smiled  sweetly 
at  the  audience.  How  they  cheered  her!  She 
did  it  all  so  gracefully.  Oh,  the  boys  in  town 
are  all  losing  their  heads  about  her."  A  hot. 
flush  overspread  Faith's  face;  her  eyes  were 
still  fixed  on  the  horse. 

"How  pretty  and  black  Prince  looks!"  she 
observed.  "How  he  shines!  How  red  his  nos- 
trils look — inside !  As  if  they  were  painted." 
Caleb  turned  his  eyes  toward  the  horse. 

"Yes,  he  is  sleek,  just  now."  There  was  a 
moment's  silence.  The  morning-glory  vines 
rustled  softly,  and  the  paHng  sunlight  slanted 
across  the  porch. 

"I  wish  I  could  graduate,  Caleb." 

"Do  you  intend  going  to  school,  now  that 
Mandy  is  through?  I — your  father  said  some- 
thing about  it  once  to  mother." 


224  TOLLIVER'S    FOOL 

"I  shall  try  to,  but  I'm  afraid  Mandy  will  not 
be  able  to  get  along  with  Wallie — Mandy  can't 
manage  him  very  well ;  he  doesn't  care  about 
her;  he  won't  mind  her  at  all.  I'm  going  to 
learn  from  Mandy,  if  I  can't  go  to  school." 

"She's  coming  home  to  live  after  school  is 
out,  is  she?"  Caleb  spoke  doubtfully. 

"Why,  certainly.  Where  else  could  she  go? 
She  may  feel  lonesome  for  awhile,  but  I'm  go- 
ing to  make  it  as  easy  for  her  as  I  can  so  she'll 
Hke  to  stay.  She  can  read  as  much  as  she 
likes." 

"I  don't  see  how  anyone  could  feel  lonesome 
here.  I  never  do,  for  example."  Caleb  smiled 
mischievously,  and  Faith  blushed. 

"You're  easily  amused;  Mandy  isn't.  Oh, 
dear,  how  this  thread  knots."  So  they  talked 
on  without  saying  much  of  anything,  till  Han- 
nah Weaver  drove  up  to  the  gate  and  Caleb 
rode  off  towards  home.  Hannah  watched  him 
as  his  horse  sped  away. 

"Wa'al,  I  dew  declare !"  said  she,  gazing  after 
him.  "I  don't  see  nothin'  the  matter  with 
them  feet.  Mebbe  'twas  a  tack  or  somethin'. 
'Pears  to  me  it's  got  well  quick." 

"What,  Aunt  Hannah?  What  about  his 
feet?" 

"You  poor  child !     You've  jes'  been  sufiferin' 


TOLIvIVER'S     FOOL,  225 

terrible,  hain't  you  ?  I  druv  straight  hum  from 
Hazen  and  got  my  yarbs.  I'll  straighten  ye  up 
in  less'n  no  time.  I'll  give  you  a  good  dose  of 
boneset — I've  got  sech  a  sight  of  it — an'  some 
leptander.  Then  I'll  put  a  bag  o'  hops  on  yer 
stummick,  an'  a  mustard  plaster  on  the  back  o' 
yer  neck."  The  old  lady  threw  off  her  cape 
and  began  picking  at  the  knot  in  her  bonnet 
strings. 

"I  won't  be  no  time  a-doing  o'  it,"  she  con- 
tinued, "an'  by  bed  time  you  won't  know  't  you 
ever  had  a  headache." 

"But,  Aunt  Hannah,  I  really  don't  think  I 
need  it.  Mustard  plasters,  you  know,  make  me 
crazy." 

"I  know  they  be  pretty  bad  when  the  mus- 
tard's fresh  like  this,  but  with  alJ  the  pain 
you've  got  in  your  head,  you  won't  skeersely 
notice  the  mustard." 

"But,  Aunt  Hannah!  D — don't  make  it. 
You  see,  I'm  better.  I  don't  need  it.  It'd  be 
too  bad  to  waste  the  mustard."  In  spite  of  ex- 
postulations, Hannah  poured  out  the  mustard 
and  took  down  the  vinegar  bottle. 

"I  tell  you.  Aunt  Hannah,  I'm  well.  My  head 
don't  ache  a  bit." 

"Not  the  least  mite  ?    Don't  ye  feel  even  the 

tracks  of  it  ?" 
o 


226  TOLLIVER'S    FOOL 

"No.  I'm  perfectly  well.  Put  away  the  mus- 
tard." 

"But  you'd  better  drink  a  cupful  o'  this 
boneset  tea,  Faithful.  It's  too  bad  to  waste 
it,  an'  it  'pears  to  me  they's  a  kind  of  a  yallerish 
look  to  yer  eyes.  I  shouldn't  wonder  a  mite  if 
you  was  comin'  down  with  the  yaller  janders. 
Headaches  is  often-  the  forerunners  of  terrible 
diseases." 

"Do  my  eyes  look  yellow?  I  hadn't  noticed 
it." 

"Yes,  it  'pears  to  me  they  do,  jest  a  little 
mite." 

Seeing-  that  there  was  no  way  out  of  it.  Faith 
took  the  cup  and  drained  it  to  the  last  drop. 

"Now  sit  down  and  rest.  Aunt  Hannah.  You 
must  be  tired." 

"Well,  I  jes'  be  tired.  I've  worrited  an'  wor- 
rited the  hull  blessed  day.  I  wouldn't  'a'  gone  a 
step  to  Hazen  if  it  hadn't  'a'  been  for  young  Mr. 
Garland.  He  come  over  an'  tole  me  you  wa'n't 
a-goin'  'cause  you'd  got  the  headache,  an'  I 
was  bound  to  come  over  here  an'  doctor  ye  up 
— I  didn't  care  no  great  'bout  goin',  nohow — 
but  he  stood  out  't  I  mus'  go;  he  said 
Mandy'd  be  dretfully  disappointed  if  I  didn't — 
guess  he  thinks  a  sight  o'  Mandy,  he  was  so 
terrible  sot  on  my  goin' — an'  he  went  out  with 


TOLLIVER'S    FOOL  227 

all  his  fine  clothes  on  an'  hitched  Madge  up  to 
the  kirridge  for  me.  Even  then  I  told  him  't  I 
didn't  feel  right  goin'  off  and  leavin'  you  to 
home  sick,  an'  't  I  b'lieved  I  wouldn't  go  after 
all.  He  seemed  dretfully  disapp'inted  an'  said 
't  he'd  calc'lated  to  ride  to  town  with  me  an' 
lead  his  hoss  behind  'cause  he  was  a  leetle  mite 
lame  in  one  foot.  The  poor  feller  looked  jes's  if 
he  didn't  know  what  to  dew,  'n'  I  went  jes'  so'st 
he  c'd  ride  along  with  me.  But  I  guess  they 
wa'n't  much  the  matter  with  his  hoss'  foot  after 
all  the  way  he  cantered  ofif  jes'  now.  You've 
begun  yer  rug,  hain't  ye.  Faithful?" 

"Yes,  I  began  it  this  morning.  Don't  you 
think  I've  worked  pretty  fast?" 

"Yes,  you  must  'a'  worked  dretful  fast  to  git 
all  this  done.  You're  goin'  to  put  it  right  in 
front  o'  the  door,  hain't  ye?  It'll  show  from 
the  road  when  the  door's  open,  if  you  put  it 
right  in  front  o'  the  door." 

"No.  I  don't  want  to  cover  up  these  knots. 
I'm  going  to  put  it  in  front  of  Daddy's  bed." 

"Don't  want  to  cover  up  these  knots,  hey? 
Why  laws  a  me,  I  sh'd  think  you'd  want  tew." 

"No.  You  see  they  look  like  faces,  Aunt 
Hannah.  Mandy  and  I  named  them  years  and 
years  ago,  and  they  seem  like  old  friends.  This 
one   is    Hannibal.      We   called   him   Hannibal 


228  TOIvLIVER'S    FOOL 

because  we  never  could  scrub  his  face  white — 
Hannibal  was  a  black  man — and  we  named  that 
one  Milton,  because — don't  you  see,  his  eyes 
are  closed,  and  Milton  was  a  blind  poet.  He 
wrote  beautiful  poetry." 

"Oh,  yes.  I've  heerd  about  him,"  observed 
Hannah.  "He  wrote  some  poetry  'bout  a  par- 
adise 't  got  lost,  didn't  he?  That's  what  Mis' 
Blackmore's  daughter  Sary  sets  'round  an' 
reads  on  purt'  nigh  the  hull  time  an'  lets  her 
ma  do  the  work.  I  guess  he  wa'n't  much,  that 
Mr.  Milton.  'Pears  to  me  't  writin'  portry's 
putty  small  bisiness  for  a  full  grown  man." 
"But  he  was  bhnd,  Aunt  Hannah." 
"Wa'al,  mebbe  he  wa'n't  to  blame,  then.  I 
don't  want  to  jedge  him.  If  I  sh'd  lose  both 
eyes,  mebbe  I  shouldn't  do  no  better'n  he  done. 
But  it  'pears  to  me  he  might  'a'  learned  to  knit. 
Dear  me  suz !  It's  been  dretful  hot  today,  hain't 
it?  I  never  see  sech  hot  weather  in  all  my 
born  days.  I  shouldn't  wonder  a  mite  if  it'd 
breed  some  new  disease.  I  met  Dr.  Carley  to- 
day an'  I  ast  him  if  he'd  heerd  of  any  new  ones. 
He  laflfed,  an'  said  't  he  guessed  they'd  hev  to 
hunt  some  more  new  feathers  for  th'  ole  birds ; 
that  they  hadn't  nothin'  new  hatched  out  yet 
this  summer.   Laws  a  me !    I  mos'  dropped  that 


TOLLIVER'S     FOOL  229 

sasser.  I  guess  I'd  better  set  it  away  an'  not 
be  playin'  with  it.  I'll  leave  some  o'  my  boneset, 
Faithful,  an'  if  you  should  ever  hev  another 
sech  a  turn  as  you've  had  today,  make  a  cup  full 
of  the  tea  real  strong  an'  drink  it  right  down." 

It  was  Sunday.  Faith,  as  usual,  had  accom- 
panied Aunt  Hannah  to  the  afternoon  services 
held  in  the  schoolhouse  at  the  Corners.  Just 
as  they  were  ready  to  start  for  home,  Hannah 
happened  to  discover  a  crack  in  the  rear  axle- 
tree  of  her  carriage.  Two  of  the  elders  of  the 
church  decided,  after  a  careful  examination, 
that  it  was  not  a  fresh  break ;  that  it  had  every 
appearance  of  having  been  cracked  a  good 
while.  Faith  asserted  stoutly  that  it  was  there 
years  and  years  ago :  that  she  and  her  sister 
had  used  to  stick  chicken  feathers  into  it  and 
play  they  were  Indians  on  the  war-path.  Han- 
nah opined  that  if  this  were  true,  nothing  but 
a  miracle  had  preserved  her  life  all  these  years, 
and  she  would  neither  get  into  the  carriage  her- 
self nor  allow  Faith  to  do  so. 

"It'd  be  temptin'  Providence  to  get  inter  that 
kirridge,  knowin'  what  we  do ;  an'  if  we  sh'd  get 
in  an'  start  fer  hum,  I  shouldn't  even  hope  to 
git  there  alive."     So  Hannah  drove  the  three 


230  TOLLIVER'S    FOOL 

miles  home  walking  beside  the  carriage,  while 
Caleb,  leading  Prince  by  a  long  halter,  followed 
loiteringly  with  Faith. 

There  had  been  a  heavy  rain  early  in  the 
morning,  and  the  road  was  hard-beaten  and 
clean.  Wild  roses  lifted  their  sweet  faces  here 
and  there  along  the  wayside;  a  bright-eyed 
squirrel  rose  on  his  haunches  and,  snuffing, 
peered  cautiously  at  the  small  caravan,  while 
his  mate,  in  a  spirit  of  daring,  raced  recklessly 
along  the  top  rail  of  the  stake-and-rider  fence. 
At  the  sound  of  footsteps  a  mother  bird  skulked 
through  the  grass,  and,  with  jealous  fear, 
spread  her  warm  breast  lovingly  over  her  pre- 
cious eggs. 

"By  the  way,  Faith,  there's  to  be  a  dance  at 
Judge  Curtice's  Friday  night;  Allen  is  going 
away,  you  know,  to  finish  his  law  course,  and 
they're  going  to  give  him  a  grand  ball  as  a  send 
ofif.  There  are  over  two  hundred  invitations 
out.    Mandy's  going,  I  hear." 

"Mandy  going?  You're  going,  too,  I  sup- 
pose." 

"Yes,  just  to  look  on ;  I  never  dance." 

"Mandy  doesn't  dance,  either,"  observed 
Faith.     "She  doesn't  know  how." 

"Oh,  yes  she  does,  pardon  me,  Mandy's  a 
good  dancer." 


TOIvLIVER'S     FOOL  231 

"Why,  I  didn't  know  she  had  ever  danced  in 
her  life."    Faith's  eyes  were  wide  open. 

"She  learned  last  winter  of  Prof.  Kavanaugh, 
who  boarded  at  Miss  Fanning's.  Miss  Foster 
played  the  piano  for  them,  and  they  practiced 
every  evening  except  Wednesdays  and  Fridays. 
Oh,  yes,"  continued  the  speaker,  after  a  mo- 
ment's pause,  "Mandy,  as  a  society  girl,  is  quite 
up-to-date." 

"Oh,  how  I  should  Hke  to  see  her  dance." 

"That's  just  what  I  was  going  to  suggest.  I 
have  an  invitation,  and  I  shall  feel  honored  if 
you  will  go  with  me." 

"But  I  have  no  invitation." 

"Haven't  I  just  invited  you?" 

"Yes,  but — but  you  are  only  invited  your- 
self." 

"I  am  invited  to  come  and  bring  a  lady;  any 
lady  I  choose,  who  will  be  good  enough  to  ac- 
cept me  as  an  escort."  He  opened  the  invita- 
tion and  handed  it  to  her. 

"  'Yourself  and  lady,'  "  read  Faith.  "Yes,  I 
see.  The  one  who  gives  the  invitation  leaves 
the  lady  question  for  the  one  invited  to  decide." 

"Exactly." 

"Are  you  sure  Mandy's  going?" 

"No,  but  Ben  told  me  he  had  invited  her,  and 
that  she  had  accepted  the  invitation." 


232  TOLIvIVER'S    FOOL 

"Did  he  invite  her  just  the  same  as  he  in- 
vited you?" 

"No.  He  invited  her  just  the  same  as  I  invite 
you.    If  she  goes  she  will  go  with  him." 

"Oh!" 

Caleb  watched  her  in  silence,  noting  the  rapid 
change  of  expression,  as,  carried  away  by  her 
imagination,  she  whirls  light  as  down  amidst 
a  throng  of  fairy  dancers,  her  fair,  young  face 
warming  like  a  rare  flower  just  opening  to  the 
wooing  of  the  sun. 

"Should  you  like  to  go,  Faith?"  Faith 
started,  blushing  deeply. 

"I  should  like  to  go,  Caleb,  but  it  would  be 
impossible.  I  mustn't  dream  of  such  things. 
School  should  come  before  parties.  I  should 
feel  out  of  place  at  a  ball." 

Faith  stepped  inside  the  gate  and  watched 
Caleb  as  he  rode  away.  Prince's  steel  shoes 
threw  back  flashes  of  sunlight  as  his  nimble  feet 
beat  a  rolling  tattoo  on  the  hard  road. 

The  following  day  a  letter  came  fromMandy, 
telling  of  the  ball,  and  all  about  her  essay,  omit- 
ting none  of  the  compliments  she  had  received, 
on  both  her  dress  and  her  composition.  A  look 
of  pain  settled  on  Faith's  face  as  she  read  the 
last  page  of  the  hurriedly  written  letter : 

"I  suppose  I  must  come  home  after  the  ball, 


TOLIvIVER'S    FOOIv  233 

but  oh,  dear,  Faith,  I  would  almost  as  soon 
die.  I  look  forward  to  it  with  a  shudder. 
Everything  is  so  still  at  home,  nothing  but  the 
mooing  of  cattle,  the  barking  of  dogs,  the 
cackle  of  hens,  and  the  continual  tinkle  of  bells. 
I  want  to  be  with  you,  Faith,  but  how  I  can 
endure  the  old  humdrum  life  of  drudgery,  I 
don't  know.  I  almost  wish  sometimes  that  I 
had  never  left  it,  but  had  allowed  myself  to 
grow  old,  like  moss  on  a  log  that  has  no 
thought  or  wish  for  anything  but  decayed 
wood.  I  cry  myself  to  sleep  almost  every 
night,  as  the  time  draws  near  for  my  living  en- 
tombment. Prof.  Bemis,  dear  old  man,  is  go- 
ing to  try  to  get  me  a  school  next  year,  but  he 
says  it  is  impossible  to  get  one  this  year. 

"In  haste,  your  loving  sister,  Mandy." 

The  castles  Faith  had  for  four  years  been 
building,  with  her  sister  in  the  home  life  as 
foundation  for  them  all,  tottered  and  fell.  She 
poured  the  tea  in  silence  that  evening,  then 
walked  over  to  the  window. 

"Don't  Daddy's  little  girl  want  any  supper? 
Pour  yourself  some  tea  'fore  it  gits  cold,  Faith- 
ful." Faith  poured  out  the  tea  and  made  a 
heroic  attempt  to  stifle,  with  chunks  of  bread, 
the  sobs  that  bubbled  up  in  her  throat. 

"I  shouldn't  s'pose  you'd  git  lonesome  now. 


234  TOLIylVER'S    FOOL 

Faithful,  when  Mandy's  comin'  home  so  soon. 
Here,  take  some  apple  sass  an'  put  on  yer  bread. 
You're  eatin'  of  it  dry." 

It  was  nine  o'clock  on  a  bright  moonlight 
night.  Faith  rose  from  the  kitchen  lounge, 
tiptoed  into  the  front  room  and  up  to  her 
father's  bed.  He  was  sleeping  soundly.  His 
wooden  leg  lay  on  the  floor.  She  turned  the 
kitchen  lamp  low,  and  went  softly  out  of  doors. 
Wallie  was  in  the  wood  yard.  She  opened  the 
gate  and  walked  in.  The  boy  started  and  raised 
the  ax  as  her  shadow  crept  upon  the  logs  be- 
fore him.  She  sprang  backward  with  upthrown 
arms. 

"Don't,  Wallie.  It's  Faith.  You  wouldn't 
strike  me.  Did  I  scare  you,  dear?"  The  boy, 
pale  and  trembling,  let  the  ax  fall  at  his  side 
and  sank  down  upon  a  log.  Faith  took  a  seat 
beside  him,  and  endeavored  to  distract  his  at- 
tention. 

"Did  you  make  all  these  chips,  Wallie?"  She 
moved  some  of  the  chips  with  the  toe  of  her 
shoe.  "Don't,  Wallie,"  she  pleaded,  laying  her 
hand  on  his  arm.  "Put  down  the  ax.  Daddy 
has  gone  to  sleep,  and  I  don't  want  you  to  wake 
him.  Look  here,  Wallie.  Don't  chop,  dear, 
please  don't,  or  sister  will  go  away  and  leave 


TOLLIVER'S    FOOL  235 

you."  Wallie  laid  down  the  ax  and  gazed  at 
her. 

"Look  here,  Wallie.  Look  at  sister.  Did 
you  ever  see  anyone  dance,  Wallie  ?  Look  here, 
brother,  and  see  sister  dance." 

Faith  picked  up  her  skirts  and  danced  on  tip- 
toe over  the  chip  yard,  keeping  time  with  her 
head  to  imaginary  music.  Wallie  watched  in- 
tently, not  the  dancer,  but  her  long,  slim 
shadow  as  it  gyrated  about  him,  bending  and 
swaying  like  a  sapling  in  the  wind.  Now  it 
whirled  tall  and  straight  with  limp  arms  ex- 
tended and  soft  hair  flying,  then,  distorted  and 
broken,  like  a  monster  in  torment,  it  moved 
writhingly  from  end  to  end  of  the  log  pile. 
The  boy  watched  it  with  increasing  interest. 
Faith  stopped  suddenly,  panting,  and  laid  her 
hand  on  her  brother's  arm. 

"Do  you  like  it,  Wallie  ?  Do  you  like  to  see 
sister  dance?"  The  boy  gave  a  double  nod, 
which  was,  in  his  vernacular,  an  assurance  that 
he  was  delighted. 

"Mandy  can  dance,  Wallie ;  Mandy  can  dance 
beautiful.  Do  you  want  to  go  with  sister  and 
see  Mandy  dance?"  Another  double  nod  con- 
vinced Faith  that  her  sample  dance  had  had  the 
desifed  effect. 


236  TOLLIVER'S    FOOL 

"You  stay  right  here,  then,  brother,  till  sister 
changes  her  clothes.  Sister's  going  to  play 
boy  with  you,  Wallie.  Do  you  remember  the 
time  we  played  boy  and  went  after  the  cows?" 
Wallie  almost  smiled  as  he  remembered  Faith 
in  coat  and  trousers  riding  the  spotted  cow 
home  from  the  pasture,  one  bright  moonlight 
night.  Not  that  he  saw  anything  ludicrous  in 
it,  but  it  was  different  from  the  ordinary,  and  it 
pleased  him. 

"Come,  Wallie,  I'm  ready  now,"  whispered 
Faith,  as  she  walked  cautiously  over  the  treach- 
erous chips.  She  had  on  a  dark  blue  knicker- 
bocker  suit  of  Wallie's  that  he  had  outgrown, 
and  her  fluflfy  yellow  hair  was  tucked  under  a 
round  cap;  all  but  the  end  of  one  mischievous 
curl  that  played  in  truant  fashion  over  the  back 
of  her  coat  collar. 

"Do  I  look  like  a  boy,  WaUie?  I  look  just 
exactly  like  a  boy,  don't  I?"  Faith  thrust  her 
hands  into  her  pockets  and  threw  herself  into 
a  dare-devil  attitude,  in  an  unconscious  en- 
deavor to  down  her  own  doubts. 

Wallie  grunted  and  shook  his  head. 

"I  tell  you  I  do,"  asserted  the  young  mas- 
querader,  setting  her  foot  down  hard.  "I  look 
just  exactly  like  a  boy ;  nobody  could  tell  I  was 
a  girl."     Then,  in  a  coaxing  tone.  "I  look  just 


TOLLIVER'S     FOOIv  237 

like  a  boy,  don't  I,  Wallie?"  The  boy  had 
sense  enough  to  nod  this  time  the  question  was 
put  to  him,  but  he  scanned  with  doubtful  eyes 
the  fair  face  and  the  slim,  white  neck.  These 
were  the  striking  points  of  difference,  and, 
though  unable  to  differentiate  minutely,  he 
could  not  help  noticing  them  after  her  brave  as- 
sertion. 

"Come  on,  Wallie;  we  must  hurry.  The 
dance  begins  at  eight  o'clock,  and  it's  nine  now. 
We'll  ride  Sam ;  both  of  us," 

Judge  Curtice's  house  was  situated  on  an 
abrupt  rise  of  ground  a  mile  from  the  city  lim- 
its. A  long  flight  of  stone  steps  led  up  to  the 
barn  from  the  rear,  and  from  the  front  of  the 
house  there  was  a  gradual  slope  down  to  the 
swiftly  flowing  Wellwood,  whose  sunlit  waters 
winked  through  the  foliage  that  bordered  its 
banks.  The  great  house  on  the  hill  was  almost 
hidden  by  trees  and  ornamental  shrubbery ;  only 
small  patches  of  white  twinkled  here  and  there 
through  the  swaying  branches.  Tonight,  the 
night  of  the  ball,  the  Curtice  house  formed  a 
picture  of  merrymaking.  Japanese  lanterns 
hung  from  all  the  trees,  outlined  the  arch  over 
the  driveway  entrance,  and  a  blaze  of  soft  lamp- 
light streamed  from  every  window.  Laughter, 
chatter  and  song  mingled  with  the  music,  and 


238  TOLLIVER'S    FOOL 

from  the  second  story  windows  clouds  of  pink 
and  white  and  blue  and  red  could  be  seen  sway- 
ing and  whirling  in  arms  of  black.  Wallie  stood 
in  a  corner  of  the  second  floor  veranda  peeping 
into  the  ballroom.  Two  of  the  veranda  win- 
dows were  open,  but  the  one  in  the  corner 
where  Wallie  stood,  had  the  shutters  closed. 

"Wallie!  Wallie !"  called  Faith,  in  an  explo- 
sive whisper.  "Do  you  see  her?  Is  she  danc- 
ing?" Wallie  heard  Faith,  but  he  was  too  ab- 
sorbed in  watching  the  dancers  to  reply. 

"Wallie!  Wallie!  Help  me  quick.  I  shall 
die  if  I  can't  see  her."  At  this  the  boy  sprang 
down,  and,  taking  a  chair  from  the  lower  ve- 
randa, he  stood  upon  it  and  boosted  his  sister 
up  until  she  could  touch  the  railing  with  her 
fingers. 

"I  can't,  Wallie ;  don't  you  see  I  can't  ?  Just 
a  little  higher."  The  boy  lifted  his  burden  until 
her  knees  rested  on  his  shoulders,  then  her  feet. 
It  was  easy.  She  climbed  over  the  railing  with 
the  calm  excitement  and  cool  determination 
men  feel  who  storm  a  city's  walls  in  the  face  of 
smoking  guns. 

For  one  blissful  minute  Faith  saw  her  sister 
whirling  in  the  waltz,  then  she  lost  sight  of 
her;  there  were  so  many  white  dresses,  but 
none,   in   the   eyes   of   Faith,   so   beautiful   as 


TOLIvIVER'S    FOOL  239 

Amanda's.  Amanda  wore  a  white  rose  in  her 
hair.  Faith  watched  for  the  dark  hair  and  the 
rose. 

"There  she  comes!  Oh,  see  her,  Wallie! 
Just  look  at  her.  See  her  whirl!  Oh,  look  at 
her  little  feet!  Look,  WalHe,  look!"  There 
was  no  need  to  thus  urge  Wallie ;  he  was  look- 
ing with  both  eyes,  and  he  was  also  doing  his 
best,  by  holding  his  mouth  wide  open,  to  press 
that  member  into  service  as  an  extra  organ  of 
vision. 

When  the  music  died  away,  Faith  felt  as  if 
she  had  been  suddenly  let  down  to  earth  after 
floating  on  waves  of  air.     How  heavy  she  felt! 

"Step  back,  Wallie.  Back,  quick.  Some  of 
'em  are  coming  to  the  windows  to  get  cool. 
But  I  guess  they're  not  using  this  one.  Stand 
still  and  don't  breathe."  WalHe  did  his  best  to 
stop  breathing,  but  he  found  it  impracticable; 
his  heart  was  thumping  wildly  with  excitement. 
He  glared  at  the  windows  trembling. 

Faith  had  never  heard  of  sane  people  walk- 
ing out  of  windows;  but,  as  in  a  dream,  imme- 
diately following  the  fear  of  it,  the  seemingly 
impossible  happened.  The  windows  flew  open 
as  if  by  magic,  and  then  two  or  three  couples 
walked  out  of  them. 

Wallie  leaped   over  the  railing  and  disap- 


240  TOLIylVER'S    FOOL 

peared  in  the  shrubbery.  Faith  made  a  move 
as  if  to  follow  him,  but  an  instant's  hesitation, 
as  she  peered  with  light-blinded  eyes  down  into 
what  seemed  a  black  abyss,  and  a  firm  hand 
grasped  her  arm. 

"See  here,  bub,  you'd  better  go  down  the 
stairway.  You  might  break  your  legs  jumping 
oflf  there  in  the  dark."  Faith  sat  on  the  veranda 
railing  swinging  her  feet  with  seemingly  per- 
fect indifference,  her  heart  beating  wildly.  She 
heard  the  girls  whispering. 

"It's  a  girl,"  said  a  high-pitched  voice.  "It's 
a  girl  dressed  up  in  boy's  clothes.  Just  look 
at  that  sweet  little  curl,  will  you,  and — and  her 
hands." 

Then  there  was  a  mumble  of  lower  voices. 

"I  tell  you  it  ith  a  girl.  I'm  going  to  find  out. 
Mithter  Garland,  bring  the  boy  here,  we  want 
to  thpeak  to  him.  He  may  be  a  printhe  in  dith- 
guithe."  The  girl  spoke  with  a  little  Hsp. 
Faith's  eyes  flashed. 

"Mith  TolHver !  Come  out  here.  We  have  a 
printhe  in  dithguithe.  Thee  if  you  can't  per- 
thuade  him  to  make  himthelf  known !"  Another 
couple  stepped  through  the  window.  "Take 
this  seat,  Miss  Tolliver,"  Faith  heard  some  one 
say.  The  captive,  whose  arm  was  still  held  in 
a  grip  that  felt  like  steel,  broke  into  a  cold  sweat. 


TOIvIvIVER'S    FOOL  241 

"Climb  over  here,  my  young  man,  and  be  in- 
troduced to  the  ladies."  Then  bending  low 
over  Faith,  so  that  she  could  feel  his  breath 
on  her  forehead,  the  young  man  continued  his 
expostulations- 

"You  really  mustn't  jump  down  there,  you 
know,  I  sha'n't  let  you.  You  might  hurt  your- 
self. Come  and  let  me  introduce  you  as  a  prince ; 
just  for  fun;  nobody'll  hurt  you;  then  I'll  let 
you  down  the  stairway,  and,  on  the  way  down, 
you'll  have  a  chance  to  see  the  house  and  deco- 
rations.    They're  fine." 

Faith,  driven  to  the  verge  of  desperation, 
and  filled  with  determination  to  convince  the 
company,  if  possible,  that  she  was  not  a  girl,  by 
leaping,  as  no  girl  would  dare  to  do,  made  a 
desperate  effort  to  free  her  arm.  Failing  in 
this,  she  burst  forth : 

"I  won't!  Leggo  o'  me,  will  ye?  You — 
you — "  The  fingers  relaxed  a  little,  and,  as 
she  wrenched  herself  free,  she  raised  her  eyes 
in  a  flash  of  wrath.  Caleb  caught  a  glimpse  of 
them,  but  not  soon  enough  to  prevent  a  reck- 
less leap  to  the  ground. 

Persuasion  to  remain  until  after  refreshments 
were  served  were  unavailing.  Within  five 
minutes  after  the  disappearance  of  the  "Prince," 
Caleb,  hat  in  hand,  stood  before  his  hostess  in 


242  TOLLIVER'S    FOOIy 

the  wide  hall.  The  music,  mingled  with  the 
low  voices  of  the  promenaders,  and  the  chatter 
and  laughter  of  the  sitters,  filled  his  ears  with 
a  dizzying  sound,  and  the  heavy  odor  of  cut 
flowers  gave  him  a  feeling  of  faintness.  He 
longed  to  be  away  from  the  sound  of  revelry 
and  the  sight  of  butterflies.  It  was  his  first  ball, 
and  he  had  already  decided  that  it  should  be  his 
last.  He  searched  the  grounds  thoroughly,  but 
Faith  was  not  to  be  found. 

After  leaping  from  the  veranda,  Wallie,  with- 
out a  thought  of  his  sister,  had  mounted  the 
horse  and  rode  home,  strong  in  the  belief  that 
he  had  barely  escaped  being  murdered. 

Faith,  weak  and  faint  with  the  pain  of  a 
sprained  ankle,  had  managed,  by  the  use  of  a 
stick,  to  reach  the  second  crossing  of  the  Well- 
wood,  a  mile  from  Hazen,  where  she  sat  on  the 
river  bank  resting,  and  wondering  if  she  would 
be  able  to  reach  home  before  daylight.  She 
was  winding  her  handkerchief  tightly  around 
the  injured  ankle,  when  the  sound  of  a  gallop- 
ing horse  caused  her  to  lift  her  head,  alarmed ; 
and  looking  up  to  the  hilltop  she  saw,  against 
the  star-studded  grey  of  night,  the  dark  sil- 
houette of  a  horse  and  rider. 

"Oh,  for  mercy's  sake !"  groaned  the  terrified 
girl.     "What  shall  I  do  now?     Dear  Lord,  help 


TOLLIVER'S    FOOL  243 

me !  If  I  don't  look  up,  maybe  he  won't  notice 
me  much;  he  seems  in  a  hurry,  and  of  course 
he'll  think  I'm  a  boy.  If  I  let  him  see  that  I'm 
lame,  naturally  he'll  ofifer  to  help  me,  and  I 
can't  walk  without  limping.  I'll  stand  still.  I 
shall  have  to.  I  can  be  throwing  stones  into 
the  river.  He'd  think  it  strange  if  I  stood  here 
at  this  hour,  idle." 

Arrived  at  these  mental  deductions.  Faith 
gathered  up  a  few  stones  of  convenient  size,  and 
just  as  Caleb's  horse  plunged  into  the  ford  (the 
bridge  was  unsafe  for  horses)  she  began  to 
whistle  "Old  Bob  Gridley"  and  sent  a  flat  stone 
skimming  through  the  air,  barely  missing  the 
rider's  head. 

"Hello!"  said  the  young  man,  as,  dismount- 
ing he  hung  the  bridle  rein  over  his  arm  and 
stepped  towards  the  young  masquerader,  who 
had  squared  herself  to  throw  another  stone. 
The  nervous  strain  Caleb  had  undergone  for 
nearly  an  hour  had  so  changed  his  voice,  that 
Faith  did  not  recognize  it  in  his  one  word  of 
salutation. 

"Hello!"  she  replied,  in  a  voice  unusually 
heavy  for  a  boy's,  and  keeping  her  eyes  fixed 
on  the  river,  she  resumed,  with  apparent  perfect 
sang-froid,  the,  "Ho,  I  ho,  and  ho,  Bob  Gridley, 
ho." 


244  TOLLIVER'S    FOOL 

"What  a  pretty  boy  she  makes !"  thought  the 
young  man,  as  he  stood  watching  Faith  throw 
stones  into  the  river,  without  winning  even  so 
much  as  a  glance  in  return. 

"She  knows  me,  of  course,"  thought  he. 
"She's  just  carrying  the  joke  on."  BeHeving 
she  was  not  hurt  as  he  had  before  feared,  he  felt 
greatly  relieved. 

Faith,  in  a  panic  of  fear  lest  she  be  recog- 
nized, and  her  escapade  become  a  scandal, 
determined  to  play  her  role  to  the  end.  The 
moon  had  gone  under  a  cloud,  and  as  she  turned 
her  head  to  see  if  her  tormentor  had  gone,  only 
the  outlines  of  a  man  holding  a  horse  could  she 
discern  in  the  darkness.  She  was  terrified  by 
his  continued  presence,  and  in  agony  with  her 
ankle.  She  prayed  frantically  for  a  moment, 
then  she  faced  about  suddenly  in  a  frenzy  of 
pain  and  fear,  like  a  beast  at  bay,  and  taking  a 
step  toward  the  dark  shadow,  she  burst  forth: 

"Why  don't  you  go  on  about  your  business? 
What  do  you  stand  there  watching  me  for? 
I'll  hit  you  with  a  stone.  I'll— I'll— "  The 
moon  slid  out  from  behind  its  dark  cover,  and 
the  foam  flecked  horse  and  his  rider  stood 
revealed. 

"Caleb!"  she  faltered,  staggering  towards 
him.  He  sprang  forward,  and  stooping,  broke 
her  fall  with  one  outstretched  arm. 


TOLLIVER'S    FOOL  245 

"Are  you  better,  Faith?"  he  asked  a  few 
minutes  later. 

"Yes,  I'm  all  right.     Why?     Did  I  faint?" 

"Well,  I  beheve  that  is  about  what  you  did. 
You  were  going  to  fall,  and  I  caught  you." 
They  were  sitting  on  the  ground.  She  moved 
away  from  his  encircling  arm. 

"It  was  my  ankle,"  she  stammered.  "It  hurts 
terribly.  I  didn't  know  it  was  you.  I  didn't 
know  who  you  were." 

"You  hurt  your  ankle  then,  did  you?  I 
feared  that,  and  am  thankful  it's  no  worse." 

"I  tried  to  scare  you  away,"  she  rattled  on, 
in  an  aimless  fashion.  "I — I  was  afraid.  I 
didn't  want  him — you,  I  mean,  to  see  me — this 
way."     Faith's  nerves  were  severely  shaken. 

"You  tried  to  scare  me  away  by  threatening 
to  hit  me  with  a  stone,  did  you  ?  I  doubt  if  you 
could  hit  me  with  a  stone.  Faith."  She  was 
gazing  towards  the  river. 

"I  wanted  you  to  think  I  was  a  boy;  one  of 
the  bad  city  boys,  you  know, — so  you  would  be 
afraid  and  go  away.'' 

"But  I'm  a  boy,  myself.  I  shouldn't  be  afraid 
of  a  boy.  I  should  be  much  more  afraid  of  a 
girl." 

"What  are  you  here  for,  Caleb?  Are  you 
just  going  home  from  the  ball?" 


246  TOLLIVER'S    FOOL 

"If  I  were,  would  I  be  going  east?" 

"Did  you  come  after  me  ?  Have  you  been  to 
our  house?     How  did  you  get  here  so  soon?" 

"Yes,  I  came  after  you.  I  went  to  your 
house  first;  I  didn't  know  where  to  go.  Fast 
riding  was  the  cause  of  my  getting  here  so  soon. 
We  will  sit  quietly  a  few  minutes,  Faith,  and 
then  we'll  start  home.  You  are  nervous.  How 
you  are  trembling !"  He  took  one  of  her  hands, 
but  she  drew  it  away  seeming  to  have  use  for 
it.    She  pushed  her  cap  back  from  her  forehead. 

"It  was  good  of  you  to  come  after  me,  Caleb, 
but  I  wish  you'd  go;  I  really  do." 

"Really?" 

"Yes,  really.  You  don't — understand.  Do 
you  think  they  knew  me?" 

"I  think  Ben  and  Mandy  did.  I  hardly  think 
anyone  else  recognized  you." 

"I  could  have  got  away  all  right  if  you  hadn't 
held  me.  What  made  you  hang  on  so?  You 
hurt  my  arm.     Oh,  I  was  angry." 

"I  was  afraid  you'd  injure  yourself.  I  didn't 
know  you  till  you  looked  up.  I'm  sorry  I  hurt 
you." 

"Did  I  look  up?     I  didn't  mean  to." 

"Yes.     Didn't  you  know  it?" 

"I  was  afraid  I  did;  I  wasn't  sure." 


TOI^LIVER'S     FOOL  247 

"Did  you  know  when  you  jumped  that  you 
were  going  to  land  on  a  brick  pavement?" 

"No,  but  it  wouldn't  have  made  any  differ- 
ence; I  was  scared  nearly  to  death.  I  wish 
you'd  go  on  home,  Caleb." 

"Don't  be  foolish,  Faith.  You're  going  to 
ride  my  horse." 

"No,  I'm  going  to  walk.  You  said  one  day 
that  your  horse  wouldn't  carry  double." 

"He  will  tonight;  he'll  have  to.  You  can't 
walk,  Faith.  It's  nonsense  to  think  of  it.  I 
will  not  leave  you  to  walk,  so  don't  entertain 
the  thought  for  a  moment." 

"You  will  not?" 

"No,  I  will  not.  If  it  is  your  costume,  I  tell 
you  frankly,  I  never  saw  you  look  better.  You 
are  the  jauntiest,  prettiest  boy  I  ever  laid  my 
eyes  on." 

Faith's  eyes  filled. 

"How  would  you  like  to  have  me  see  you  in 
girls'  clothes;  I  should  like  to  know?"  Caleb 
had  hard  work  to  suppress  a  smile,  but  he  main- 
tained a  serious  and  rather  severe  expression. 

"If  you  ever  do  see  me  so,  I  shall  try  to  be 
sensible.  At  least  I  shall  endeavor  not  to  be 
silly."  His  tone  was  cutting.  Faith  sprang 
up.     The  few  minutes  of  rest  had  stiffened  her 


248  TOLLIVER'S    FOOI^ 

ankle,  and  the  pain,  whenever  she  attempted  the 
least  use  of  it,  was  severe,  but  she  lifted  her  head 
proudly. 

"I  am  going  to  ride  just  as  you  advise,  Mr. 
Garland.  Not  because  of  what  you  said,  but 
because  I  can't  walk.  I  shall  never  speak  to 
you  again,  though."  As  she  stepped  towards 
the  horse,  again  she  reeled  and  would  have 
fallen,  but  for  Caleb's  timely  arm. 

"Why  didn't  you  let  me  sit  behind  you, 
Caleb?  That's  the  way  I  always  ride  with 
Daddy.  This  way  isn't — isn't  easy.  I'm  in 
your  way,  too." 

"I  couldn't  hold  you  if  you  sat  behind  me.  I 
shouldn't  dare  let  you  ride  behind  me;  you 
might  faint  and  fall  oflF.  I'm  sorry  you're  un- 
comfortable. I'm  glad,  though,  that  you've 
changed  your  mind.  I'm  pleased  to  find  that 
you  do  sometimes  change  it." 

"Changed  my  mind  about  what?" 

"About  speaking  to  me." 

"Oh !"  There  was  a  long  silence,  then  Faith 
moved  uneasily. 

"You  don't  need  to  hold  me,"  she  said,  with 
a  note  of  irritation  in  her  voice.  "I  can  ride 
a  horse ;  I  could  ride  alone." 

"Would  you  prefer  to  ride  alone  ?" 

"I  shouldn't  like  to  have  you  walk.     I  don't 


TOLIvIVER'S    FOOIv  249 

wish  to  ride  alone — but — but — I  should  think 
you'd  need  both  arms  to  guide  the  horse.  Look : 
he's  going  crooked." 

"But  he's  following  the  path." 

There  was  silence  for  a  few  minutes. 

"How  dark  it  is !"  observed  Faith.  Her  voice 
shook  a  little. 

"Yes,  it  is  rather  dark  just  now." 

"Oh,  what  is  that  ahead?  What  are  we 
going  into,  Caleb?     Is  it  water?" 

"There  is  no  cause  for  alarm ;  it's  only  some 
tall  grass." 

"I'm  not  alarmed.  Isn't  that  some  one 
coming  over  yonder?  I'm  sure  it  is.  It's  a 
man  and  he's  coming  towards  us." 

"No.  It's  only  a  dead  tree.  It  isn't  coming, 
it's  standing  perfectly  still."  There  was  a  long 
silence.  A  warm  drop  trembled  for  a  moment 
on  the  point  of  Faith's  chin,  then  fell  upon 
Caleb's  wrist.  The  arm  about  her  tightened. 
He  bent  his  head  until  his  cheek  touched  her 
hair. 

"What  makes  you  cry,  Faith?  Why  do  you 
feel  so?  What  can  I  do  to  please  you?  You 
don't  trust  me  at  all.    Shall  I  get  off  and  walk  ?" 

"No.     I  wouldn't  let  you." 

"Then  why  do  you  feel  bad?" 

"Because  I  went.     I  wish  I'd  staid  at  home 


250  TOLUVER'S    FOOL 

where  I  belong.  I  ought  to  have  known 
better;  but  I  was  so  anxious  to  see  Mandy 
dance.  Then  I'm  sorry  because  I  put  these 
on,  and  I — I — "     She  hesitated. 

"Go  on.     What  else?" 

"I  don't  want  you  to  hold  me.  You  oughtn't 
to  put  your  arms  around  me.     I  can  sit  alone." 

"Is  that  all?" 

"I  should  think  it  was  enough." 

"Surely,  it  is.  If  you  will  allow  me  to  begin 
with  your  last  complaint,  being  the  only  one 
for  which  I  am  responsible,  I  will  say :  if  I  didn't 
hold  you,  you  would  fall,  if  you  should  happen 
to  faint,  and  Prince  might  step  on — 

"I'm  not  going  to  faint." 

"You  can't  be  sure  of  that.  You've  fainted 
twice,  you  know." 

"I  didn't,"  she  protested,  poutingly.  "I  didn't 
faint  the  last  time.  I  knew  where  I  was  all  the 
time ;  I  was  only  dizzy." 

"People  have  been  known  to  fall  from  dizzi- 
ness," observed  Caleb.  The  horse  was  walking 
slowly  through  the  tall  grass,  with  a  step  that 
was  elastic  and  sure.  Caleb,  as  if  impelled  by 
an  irresistible  force,  suddenly  dropped  the 
reins  over  the  saddle  and  clasped  Faith  in  his 
arms. 


TOLIylVER'S    FOOL  251 

"Oh,  don't  be  angry,  Faith.  Please  don't  be 
angry.  I  love  you.  You  are  the  only  girl  I  ever 
held  in  my  arms,  and  the  only  one  I  ever  cared 
to  hold.  I  have  loved  you  for  two  years,  Faith. 
Think  of  it!  Oh,  you  don't  know  what  you 
have  been  to  me.  Can't  you  love  me,  just  a 
little,  dear?  Ever  so  little?"  There  was  no 
reply.  Faith  made  no  effort  to  free  herself.  She 
could  feel  the  violent  throbbing  of  his  heart. 
She  tried  to  speak,  but  her  voice,  for  the 
moment,  refused  to  obey. 

"If  you  cannot.  Faith ;  if  you  feel  that  you  do 
not  love  me,  even  a  little,  tell  me  so  frankly. 
Have  no  fear  of  hurting  me."  Still  she  was 
silent. 

"Say  this.  Faith:  say  it  after  me — it  may  do 
me  good.  'I  would  rather  you  did  not  hold  me 
in  your  arms,  Caleb,  because  I  do  not  love  you, 
and  I  feel  sure  I  never  can  love  you,  even  a 
little.'  Say  it.  Faith.  Then  I'll  get  off  and 
let  you  ride  alone,  if  you  wish  it." 

"I  can't  Caleb,"  she  faltered  at  last,  "I  can't 
say  it,  because — " 

"Because  what,  dear?"  The  arms  closed 
more  firmly  about  her,  and  his  warm  breath  was 
on  her  cheek. 

"Because  it  wouldn't  be  true." 


252  TOLLIVER'S    FOOL 

The  moon  came  out  again  bright  and  clear 
just  as  the  riders  reached  the  summit  of  the 
hill;  the  highest  point  between  Hazen  and  the 
Corners. 

"You  mustn't  do  that  again,  Caleb.  You 
positively  mustn't." 

"Mustn't  do  what,  Faith?  Mustn't  kiss 
you?" 

"You  mustn't  so  much,"  she  replied,  half 
offended. 

"So  much?  Why,  I've  kissed  you  only  once, 
dear,  only  once." 

"Yes,  but  you  made  it  last  almost  all  the  way 
up  the  hill." 

"I  shall  kiss  you  like  that  every  hour  in  the 
day  after  we  are  married." 

"Then  you'll  never  do  anything  else."  They 
both  laughed  a  little. 

"Show  me  the  way  you  think  lovers  ought  to 
kiss  one  another,  Faith.  Perhaps  I  don't  know 
the  proper  way;  but  I'm  willing  to  be  taught." 

"Indeed,  I  will  not.  I  don't  know,  either," 
she  repHed,  blushing  deeply.  "What  road  is 
that  we're  coming  to,  Caleb?  Isn't  this  Cuth- 
bert's  mill? 

"Yes." 

"Why,  what  in  the  world  made  you  come  this 
way?     It's  a  mile  farther." 


TOLUVER'S    FOOL  253 

"Is  it?"  asked  the  young  lover,  with  an  air  of 
innocence. 

"You  know  it  is.  I  believe  you  did  it  on 
purpose." 

"I  confess  that  I'm  not  in  a  particular  hurry. 
How  is  your  ankle?" 

"I  had  forgotten  it ;  but  since  you  have  made 
me  think  of  it,  it  is  painful." 

"Forget  it,  then.  You  see  Prince  is  carrying 
double  without  the  slightest  objection." 

"Yes."  They  were  silent  for  a  few  moments. 
"I  was  never  so  astonished  in  my  life,  Caleb." 
Faith's  voice  was  just  above  a  whisper. 

"Astonished  at  what,  darling?  Because 
Prince  carries  double?  He's  a  good  friend  of 
mine."  Faith  caught  her  breath  and  a  rush  of 
blood  warmed  her  cheeks.  No  one  but  her 
mother  had  ever  called  her  "darling,"  and  that 
was  like  a  dim,  almost-forgotten  dream. 

"At — why — at  what  you  told  me  a  while 
ago,"  she  faltered. 

"Astonished  that  I  love  you?" 

"Yes,  very  much  indeed." 

"No  one  else  who  knows  you  would  be  in  the 
least  astonished,  I'm  sure.  Why,  I  have  fancied 
you  knew  it.  Faith.  I  felt  it  so  deeply  that  it 
seemed  to  me  you  must  see  it.     I  thought,  the 


254  TOLLIVER'S    FOOL 

day  you  colored  the  yarn,  that  you  had  found 
me  out  and  were  angry  with  me." 

"Oh  no.  That  was  the  day  I  found  myself 
out,"  declared  Faith,  with  regretable  haste. 

"Faith !  Was  it  really?  Oh,  if  I  had  known 
it! 

"It  was  the  day  I — found  out — that  I — had 
better — 'tend  to  my  work,"  she  added,  in  an 
attempt  to  modify  her  declaration. 

"Don't  try  to  rob  me,  Faith.  Tell  me  you 
love  me;  you  haven't  said  so  yet." 

"But  I've  just  the  same;  I  let  you  kiss  me, 
and  I  wouldn't  have — " 

"I  know  you  wouldn't,  dear.  It's  just  the 
same;  of  course;  but  it  would  make  me  very, 
very  happy  to  hear  you  say  it.  You  will  say 
it  some  day,  won't  you.  Faith  ?" 

"Maybe— if— " 

"If  what,  dear?" 

"If  I  find  that  I  really  do,"  she  replied  with  a 
teasing  smile. 

"You're  not  sure,  then?  he  asked  anxiously. 

"Oh,  Caleb !  Don't  you  know  me  yet  ?"  He 
could  see  the  soul  of  love  in  her  dear  eyes  as  she 
gazed  a  little  reproachfully  into  his,  and  he  was 
satisfied. 

About  ten  days  after  the  Curtice  ball,  Faith 
received  a  letter  from  Amanda  saying  that  she 


TOIylvIVER'S    FOOL  255 

was  coming  home  on  the  following  Sunday 
and  would  bring  a  friend  with  her. 

"Have  everything  in  the  best  of  order,"  she 
wrote,  "have  father  put  his  coat  on,  and  above 
all,  keep  Wallie  out  of  sight.  It  would  be  nice 
to  have  something  dainty  for  a  little  lunch.  We 
shall  not  stay  long,  and.  Faith,  I  have  some- 
thing very  important  to  tell  you."  A  look  of 
pain  came  into  Faith's  face. 

Faith  did  not  go  to  meeting  the  next  Sunday ; 
she  sat  at  the  window  watching  for  Mandy  and 
her  friend.  They  drove  up  to  the  gate  at  last — 
Amanda  and  Benjamin  Curtice. 

After  a  half  hour  of  rambling  conversation, 
in  which  no  one  felt  at  ease,  Mr.  Curtice,  having 
indicated  to  Amanda's  father  that  he  would  like 
a  little  private  conversation  with  him,  was 
invited  out  to  the  barn  to  see  the  colts.  Faith 
sat  watching  her  sister  with  troubled  eyes. 
They  had  had  a  few  words  in  private  upstairs: 
the  secret  was  out. 

"Come  on  out  to  the  gate,  Faith.  I  don't 
like  sitting  here.  How  do  you  ever  get  your 
hair  up  that  way?  It's  very  stylish  and 
becoming.     I  wonder  if  I  could  do  mine  so." 

"Oh,  I  just  give  it  a  twist  or  two  and  stick 
the  pins  in,  that's  all." 

"Now,  I'll  go  on.     Let  me  see,  what  was  I 


256  TOLLIVER'S    FOOL 

telling  you?  Oh,  yes,  now  I  know,  about  my 
ring.     How  do  you  like  it?     It's  a  solitaire." 

"Oh,  it's  beautiful,  Mandy,  but  I  thought  you 
said  it  was  a  diamond." 

"It  is  a  diamond,  Faith.  Any  precious  stone 
set  alone  is  called  a  solitaire.  I  thought  you 
knew  that  much." 

"How  could  you  expect  me  to  know?  I 
never  saw  a  diamond,  and  I  never  heard  of  a 
solitaire ;  I  thought  it  was  some  kind  of  a  stone. 
I  don't  pretend  to  know  much,  and  I  never 
expect  to  now." 

"Why  do  you  say,  'now,'  Faith  ?  Tell  me  what 
you  mean  by  'now?'" 

"Why,  I  thought  you  were  coming  home  to 
live  after  you  graduated,  and  that  we  should 
have  the  same  good  times  together  we  used 
to  have.  I  thought  I  could  learn  lots  of  things 
from  you  without  going  to  school;  you  said  I 
could.  Now,  I  shall  never  know  anything.  It's 
an  awful  grief  to  me  to  have  to  give  up  your 
coming  on  account  of  your  company,  too.  It 
takes  the — the — well,  the  life  out  of  everything. 
I'm  jealous  of  Ben.  He  hasn't  any  business  to 
take  you  away  from  us."  And  letting  restraint 
go,  tears  streamed  down  her  uncovered  face. 

"I  didn't  suppose  you  capable  of  jealousy, 
Faith ;  I'm  disappointed.     I  never  could  be  con- 


TOLLIVER'S    FOOL  257 

tented  here  in  this  little  weather-worn  house, 
with  no  carpets  and  not  a  decent  piece  of 
furniture.  I  should  be  wretched.  I  hate  the 
old  things." 

"Then  you'd  better  not  come  back;  certainly 
not ;  if  that's  the  way  you  feel,  Mandy."  Faith 
wiped  her  cheeks,  straightened  up,  and  her 
tears  ceased  to  flow. 

"To  tell  you  the  honest  truth,"  pursued  the 
elder  sister,  "I'd  rather  stay  single  a  few  years 
yet  if  I  had  a  pretty  home  to  live  in  and  money 
to  buy  nice  clothes  and  books.  I'm  fond  of 
Ben,  in  a  way,  and  he  adores  me — says  he  can't 
live  without  me,  and  all  that,  you  know.  I 
could  live  without  him  and  not  half  try."  Faith 
turned  pale  and  leaned  her  head  against  the 
tree. 

"Faith,  are  you  sick?  You're  as  white  as 
marble.  Don't  look  that  way.  You  look — 
frozen." 

"And  yet  you  are  going  to  marry  him, 
Mandy?  Tell  me  this:  Does  Ben  think  you 
love  him?  Do  you  pretend  that  you  do?" 
Faith's  eyes,  as  she  gazed  into  those  of  her 
sister,  carried  such  a  weight  of  innocent  accusa- 
tion, that  Amanda  shrank  under  it  and  turned 
her  head  away  without  replying. 


258  TOLLIVER'S     FOOL 

"Don't  do  it,  Mandy.  Oh,  don't.  It's 
wicked.  You'll  get  punished,  you  will,  Mandy." 

"Don't  be  silly,  Faith.  A  great  many  marry 
without" — a  sound  of  voices  arrested  Amanda's 
speech. 

"There  they  come.  Father  is  going  to 
object ;  I  can  see  it  in  the  way  he  moves,  but  it 
will  make  no  difference;  I'm  of  age." 

"Mandy!     You  wouldn't—" 

"Yes  I  would."  Stubborn  determination 
hardened  Amanda's  face,  and  there  was  an  un- 
lovely glitter  in  her  eyes  when  she  looked  up, 
at  her  father's  approach.  Faith  sighed,  and 
folded  her  hands  passively. 

Alexander  had  taken  off  his  coat  and  rolled 
his  shirt  sleeves  up  above  his  elbows.  This 
was  a  thing  he  rarely  failed  to  do  when  excited, 
agitated  or  deeply  interested.  Hannah  had 
often  told  Amanda  and  Faith  that  she  lost  all 
enjoyment  in  their  mother's  funeral  through 
not  daring  to  take  her  eyes  off  her  brother, 
lest  he  pull  off  his  coat  and  roll  up  his  sleeves ; 
and  she  stoutly  declared  that  if  she  could  have 
had  a  dollar  for  every  time  she  prevented  him 
doing  so  by  stepping  on  his  toes,  she  could 
have  paid  the  funeral  expenses  twice  over  and 
had  enough  left  to  buy  a  very  decent  grave 
"stun." 


TOLLIVER'S    FOOL  259 

"So  you're  thinkin'  'bout  goin'  off  an'  leavin' 
us,  be  ye,  Mandy?"  Alexander's  words  were 
thrown  out  as  if  he  did  not  Hke  the  taste  of 
them.  "I've  been  calc'latin'  on  your  comin' 
home  to  give  yer  sister  a  chance ;  that  was  the 
bargain,  wa'n't  it?"  Then  turning  to  his 
younger  daughter,  "Go  inter  the  house,  Faith- 
ful, and  set  a  'piece'  on  the  table  if  you're  goin' 
to;  I  want  ter  hev  a  little  talk  with  yer  sister 
alone."  This  was  said  with  a  sweeping  glance 
over  the  young  man  at  his  side,  who  walked 
away,  industriously  chewing  a  straw. 

Faith,  giving  her  sister  a  glance  of  admoni- 
tion tempered  with  sympathy,  walked  slowly 
toward  the  house.  With  her  hand  on  the 
kitchen  door  latch,  she  paused,  glancing  back 
at  the  two  under  the  tree.  Amanda  was  look- 
ing down  at  her  white  hands  that  lay  clenched 
in  her  lap.  Her  father  stood  with  folded  arms, 
looking  down  at  her.  There  was  a  look  of 
trouble  and  anxiety  in  Faith's  eyes,  when,  a  half 
hour  later  her  father  came  in  alone,  and  she 
sank  into  a  chair. 

"Oh,  Daddy!  They're  gone.  What  made 
you  let  them  go  ?     Oh,  what  made  you  ?" 

"Wa'al,  Mandy  sassed  me,  'n'  I  told  her  't  I 
guessed  we  c'd  git  along  without  her.  This 
house  ain't  good  'nough  fer  her  sence  she's  been 


260  TOI^LIVER'S     FOOL 

to  the  city;  she  wants  carpits  and  picters  an' 
things,  so  I  jes'  told  her  right  out  plain  she 
might  go  an'  stay  if  she  wanted  to,  she  was 
gittin'  too  dam  fine  fer  us.  I  vow,  I  never  see 
sech  a  sassy  girl." 

"Oh,  Daddy!     You  quarreled  with  Mandy?" 

"Wa'al,  I  guess  you  kin  call  it  that  if  you 
want  tew ;  it  wa'n't  nothin'  else.  She's  ashamed 
of  her  brother ;  she  said  so  right  out  an'  out,  and 
she's  ashamed  o'  me  too.  I've  seen  it  stickin' 
out  a  good  while,  but  I  hain't  said  nothin'.  She 
don't  want  me  to  say  much  when  her  comp'ny 
comes.  She  tole  me  so  once.  S'pose  I  don't 
talk  proper  'nough  to  suit  her.  It's  hurt  my 
feelin's  terrible,  but  I've  kep'  it  to  myself. 
Didn't  hev  nobody  to  send  me  to  school — when 
I  was  a  boy — m'  father  died — had  to  work — ter 
take  care  o'  mother  an'  Dick."  A  cough 
grappled  with  a  sob  in  the  old  man's  throat  as 
he  bent  to  hide  the  struggle,  and  lay  a  stick  of 
wood  on  the  dead  ashes. 

"She  don't  never  want  ter  set  eyes  on  her 
home  agin.     She  said  so." 

"Mandy  didn't  mean  it,  Daddy;  she  was 
angry." 

"We've  worked  like  'Sam  Hill'  to  send  her 
to  school,"  continued  the  old  man,  "an'  this's 


TOIvLIVER'S     FOOL  261 

what  we  git  for  it."  With  his  fingers  Alex- 
ander combed  his  iron  grey  beard  that  hung 
from  his  chin  in  the  shape  of  a  whisk  broom. 

They  sat  on  opposite  sides  of  the  table.  Faith 
ate  crumbs  that  choked  her,  and  her  father,  in 
an  unconscious  endeavor  to  show  that  his 
appetite  was  not  affected  by  the  quarrel,  ate, 
or  rather  swallowed  in  great  gulps,  four  pieces 
of  cake,  then  he  put  on  his  hat  and  went  out  to 
the  barn.  Faith  sat  a  long  time  at  the  table, 
brushing  crumbs  into  little  heaps  on  the  clean 
table-cloth,  and  gazing  out  over  the  wood  pile. 

"I  guess  he  thought  the  cake  was  bread. 
Poor  Daddy.  He  didn't  touch  his  tea.  I  shall 
have  to  throw  it  out.  Do  you  want  it,  Wallie  ?" 
The  boy  settled  the  question  of  the  tea  without 
a  word  and  helped  himself  to  the  largest  piece 
of  cake. 

"Wallie,  don't  take  so  much  into  your  mouth 
at  once.  Daddy  doesn't  do  that  way;  nor  Mr. 
Nathan,  nor  Uncle  Dick.  Uncle  Dick  is  coming 
to  see  us  next  Sunday.  You  watch  him  when 
he  comes,  and  try  to  do  as  he  does.  Will  you, 
dear?" 

"No,  I  won't"  declared  the  boy  with  a  pout. 

"Wallie,  do  you  want  to  make  sister  cry?" 
He  shook  his  head  vigorously. 


262  TOLLIVER'S    FOOL 

Faith  in  tears  was  the  one  thing  that  could 
move  Walhe.  She  had  brought  him  into  sub- 
jection many  times  by  simulated  sobs,  but  he 
had  learned  to  distinguish  between  the  false  and 
the  true. 

"Wallie,  you  make  Faith  very  unhappy 
because  you  don't  try  to  act  like  other  people. 
Won't  you  try? — just  to  please  sister."  The 
boy  shook  his  head,  and,  taking  another  piece 
of  cake,  crammed  the  whole  of  it  into  his  mouth 
and  swallowed  it,  blinking.  Faith  burst  into 
tears,  and  wept  as  if  quite  discouraged.  Wallie's 
eyes  filled  with  tears  and  he  pushed  Faith's 
bowed  head. 

"Stop,  sister,  stop !  Wallie  won't — eat — any 
more — cake,"  he  blubbered.  And  as  Faith 
raised  her  head,  he  held  a  piece  of  the  cake  to 
her  lips.  "Sister  eat  it.  WalHe'll  be  good  boy 
— won't  eat  cake — any  more."     Faith  smiled. 

"That  isn't  what  sister  meant,  dear.  Put  the 
cake  back;  Faith  doesn't  want  it.  Listen,  and 
try  to  understand.  You  may  eat  cake,  but  don't 
fill  your  mouth  so  full." 

"Like  Uncle  Dick,"  suggested  the  boy. 

"Yes,  like  Uncle  Dick.  Sister's  very  sad, 
Wallie.  Mandy  is  never  coming  home  to  live 
any  more.     She's  going  to  get  married.     We 


TOIvLIVER'S    FOOL  263 

shall  have  to  live  here  without  her,  always.  Just 
you,  and  Daddy,  and  I.  Faith  can't  ever  get 
married.  She'll  have  to  stay  here  till  she  gets 
old  and  let  everybody  else  get  married  and  be 
happy.  She  forgot  for  a  few  days — forgot  her 
duty,  and  thought  she  might  be  happy,  too.  But 
she  remembers  now  that  it's  impossible.  So 
she  has  just  made  up  her  mind  to  stay  here  with 
you  and  Daddy,  in  mother's  place.  Caleb  will 
marry  some  other  girl — "  She  choked  here 
and  fresh  tears  coursed  down  her  cheeks. 
"Sister  can't  ever  go  to  school  any  more,  either, 
WalHe,  and  that's  another  reason  why  she  can't 
get  married.  Girls  who  can't  be  educated 
shouldn't  get  married."  Thus  Faith  sought 
relief  in  word  expression,  while  Wallie  swooped 
flies  off  the  table  with  his  hand. 

"Don't  WalHe.  Don't  pull  the  flies  to  pieces. 
It's  cruel."  He  stopped  instantly.  Faith 
smiled.  "You  do  love  sister,  don't  you, 
Wallie?"  For  reply,  the  boy  took  her  in  his 
arms  and  kissed  her  cheek. 

"I  know  he's  getting  better — I  just  know  it; 
I  don't  care  what  Mandy  says.  What  if  he 
should  get  well — or  nearly  well?  what  if  he 
should.  I'd  go  to  school  first — and  graduate — 
and  then — "     A  smile  that  was  like  sunshine  in 


264  TOLLIVER'S    FOOL 

mist  overspread  her  face,  and  as  she  cleared  the 
table  she  hummed,  in  a  low  voice,  a  cradle  song. 
It  is  so  easy  for  the  young  to  hope. 

Amanda's  wedding  cards  were  out.  Hannah 
had  just  fetched  them  from  the  postofiftce  at  the 
Corners. 

"Are  you  going.  Aunt  Hannah  ?" 

"No.  I  ain't  goin'."  Hannah  threw  out  her 
words  as  if  they  were  uncomfortably  hot.  She 
had  seated  herself,  with  unusual  emphasis,  in  a 
straight  back  chair.  She  was  particularly 
partial  to  rocking  chairs,  but  this  morning  she 
was  not  in  a  rocking  mood.  She  shut  her  snuff 
box  with  a  snap.  The  stifif  little  iron  grey  curls 
that  hung  on  her  cheeks  jigged  about  spitefully 
as  if  at  one  with  her  in  feeling. 

"I  like  weddin's,"  she  continued;  "they  ain't 
nothin'  I  like  better  'nless  it's  a  fust-class 
funeral,  but  I  ain't  goin'  on  no  such  invitation  as 
she  has  sent  me." 

"Why,  didn't  you  get  one  like  this.  Aunt 
Hannah?" 

"Yes,  but  I  got  a  letter  from  her  yistiddy." 

"What  in  the  world  did  she  say?  Was  it 
unkind?" 

"She  tole  me  what  to  wear  and  what  to  say 
when  folks  spoke  to  me.     I  ain't  use  ter  that. 


Tor^WVER'S    FOOL  265 

Guess  I  know  what  to  say's  well 's  the  next  one. 
They  can't  nobody  git  ahead  o'  me  when  it 
comes  to  talkin'.  That's  my  strongest  pint. 
Hezekier  use'  ter  say  't  I  beat  all  the  women  he 
ever  see.  He  said  't  I  c'd  talk  him  inter  the 
headache  an'  out  again  afore  most  women  c'd 
turn  'round.  She  tole  me  to  wear  my  brown 
silk,  and  she  said  she  wished  I'd  cut  the  cape 
off,  'cause  'twas  out  o'  fashion." 

In  Hannah's  eyes,  this  was  the  crowning 
insult  to  her  best  dress.  Amanda  had  suggested 
various  other  changes. 

"Why,  they's  four  yards  o'  fringe  on  that 
cape,  an'  eight  yards  o'  gimp  trimmin'.  I  see 
myself  a  cuttin'  of  it  off.  It's  the  handsomest 
part  o'  the  hull  dress.  It  took  Miss  Sykes  two 
days  to  make  that  cape." 

"Who  is  Miss  Sykes,  Aunt  Hannah  ?" 

"She  was  Mis'  Blackmore's  second  cousin. 
She  passed  away,  poor  thing,  some'rs  about 
eight  year  ago  this  comin'  fall.  She  died  with 
consumption.  Commonest  kind  of  disease," 
observed  Hannah,  in  a  contemptuous  whisper. 
"I  sh'd  hate  dretfully  to  die  with  it." 

"What  else  did  Mandy— " 

"Oh,  yes.  She  tole  me  't  I  would  be  doin' 
her  a  favor  to  say  nothn'  'bout  the  misery  in 
my  stummick.    She  said  that  when  folks  ast  how 


266  TOLLIVER'S    FOOL 

I  was,  they  didn't  want  ter  know,  an'  they 
didn't  expect  me  to  go  an'  tell  'em.  She  said 
'twas  alius  best  to  say  you  was  well  whether 
you  was  or  not.  Now  I  ain't  goin'  to  do  no 
sech  thing.  When  folks  ask  me  how  I  be,  I'm 
goin'  to  tell  'em  the  truth.  No,  I  ain't  goin'  to 
the  weddin',  Faithful,  I  ain't  goin'  a  step." 

Faith  walked  out  to  the  gate  with  her  Aunt 
Hannah,  where  they  sat  for  half  an  hour  in 
earnest  conversation.  Faith  had  done  the  most 
of  the  talking ;  Hannah's  part  in  it  having  been 
almost  entirely  of  an  exclamatory  nature. 

"Wa'al,  when's  this  wonderful  pussen  a 
comin'?"  Hannah's  nose  was  in  the  air,  and 
her  tone  was  incredulous. 

"He's  here  now.  Caleb,  with  Daddy's  and 
my  consent,  wrote  to  him  about  it  two  weeks 
ago,  but  he  couldn't  come  then.  He's  here 
now  on  his  vacation.  He  thinks  all  Wallie's 
trouble  is  caused  by  a  pressure  on  the  brain, — 
where  the  indenture  is — that  could  be  relieved 
by  such  an  operation  as  I  have  described  to 
you;  trephining  they  call  it.  His  father — 
young  Dr.  Gaylord's  father — is  an  eminent 
surgeon — he  has  performed  some  wonderful 
cures — and  Wallie  will  be  in  his  care.  I  shall  go 
along,  of  course.  Now,  what  do  you  think 
about  it.  Aunt  Hannah  ?" 


TOLLIVER'S    FOOL  267 

"Wa'al,  I  don't  b'lieve  the  Lord  ever 
calc'lated  to  hev  us  saw  holes  in  folkses  heads 
to  git  sense  intew  'em.  That  ain't  the  way  He 
does.  I  don't  b'lieve  in  no  sech  doin's,  an  I  ain't 
goin'  to  say  't  I  dew." 

Fortunately,  Caleb's  friend,  the  young  Dr. 
Gaylord,  won  Wallie's  heart  with  little  effort. 
They  went  together,  hunting,  fishing  and  swim- 
ming, and  when,  after  a  fortnight's  stay,  the 
young  doctor  was  ready  to  go  home,  Wallie 
was  not  only  willing  but  anxious  to  go  with 
him. 

Three  weeks  later,  a  letter  from  Boston 
brought  the  good  news  that  Wallie  was  out  of 
danger  from  the  operation,  and  that  the  im- 
provement in  his  mental  condition  was  great. 

"You  wouldn't  know  him,  Daddy,"  wrote 
Faith.  "He  is  so  white,  and  he  talks  much 
more  than  he  ever  did  before.  He  does  ask 
such  odd  questions !  Oh,  how  I  love  him, 
Daddy !  my  own,  dear  brother.  And  how  I  love 
God  for  giving  him  back  to  us.  I  long  to  have 
you  see  him  and  to  have  all  the  neighbors  see 
his  beautiful,  intelligent  face — and  particularly 
those  who  have  called  him  our  'Fool.'  God 
forgive  them.  He  smiled  at  me  today,  and  it 
made  me  so  happy  I  cried.  I  hid  my  face  in 
the  bed  clothes,  and  he  smoothed  my  hair.     I 


268  TOLrlvIVER'S    FOOL 

think  he  must  love  me,  don't  you  think  so?  I 
have  written  to  Caleb  thanking  him  for  his 
kindness,  and  I  wish  you  would  thank  him  too, 
for  it  was  he  suggested  the  operation  and  in- 
sisted upon  it  until  we  were  almost  offended 
with  him.  And,  Daddy,  here  is  something  you 
do  not  know :  Caleb  sent  for  the  doctor  to  come 
to  see  Wallie.  He  did  not  come  for  a  vaca- 
tion as  we  supposed,  and  Caleb  obligated  him- 
self to  pay  the  bills,  but  don't  tell  him  we  found 
it  out.  Now,  we  can  pay  our  own  bills,  thank 
the  Lord  and  dear  old  Uncle  Dick.  Wallie  is 
looking  at  me  now.  He  says  it  is  medicine 
time,  and  it  is;  just  four  o'clock.  He  has  the 
doctor's  watch  and  he  has  already  learned  to 
tell  the  time,  and  only  think,  Daddy,  we  have 
been  here  but  seven  weeks  yesterday.  You 
asked  me  about  the  fits.  I  thought  I  had  told 
you.  He  has  had  no  sign  of  a  fit  since  the 
operation,  and  the  doctor  says  he  will  never 
have  any  more.  I'm  so  glad  Aunt  Hannah  at 
last  is  coming  to  live  with  us.  With  love  to 
her  and  to  all. 

"Your  happy  daughter, 

"Faithful  Evalyn  Tolliver." 

A  long,  wet  winter  had  passed,  and  Faith 
again  sat  in  the   sunshine  among  the   roses. 


TOLI^IVER'S    FOOL  269 

Caleb  sat  by  her  side,  and  Prince,  the  proudest, 
sleekest  six-year-old  in  the  county,  waltzed 
with  impatient  nodding  around  the  hitching 
post,  Wallie  sat  on  the  door-step  with  his  chin 
resting  in  one  hand. 

"What's  he  doing,  Faith?" 

"He's  reading  in  my  old  first  reader.  This 
is  the  second  time  he  has  read  it  through.  Don't 
you  think  he  is  doing  well  ?" 

"How  could  he  help  it  with  such  a  teacher? 
What  a  handsome  boy  Wallie  is!  He  looks 
well  in  his  new  suit." 

"Yes,  my  brother  is  handsome,  isn't  he? 
Everybody  says  so."  Faith  was  fond  of  saying 
"my  brother."  Her  eyes  followed  Wallie  as  he 
rose,  slipped  the  reader  into  his  pocket  and 
started  out  towards  the  barn,  whistling  as  he 
walked  along. 

"He  learned  that  from  you,  Caleb." 

"What,  whistling?" 

"No,  jumping."  Wallie  glanced  back 
innocently  after  he  had  overleapt  the  gate,  to 
see  if  his  feat  had  been  remarked. 

For  years  Wallie  seemed  a  little  queer  at 
times,  but  nature's  kind  hands  were  slowly  but 
surely  gathering  up  the  lost  threads  that  had  so 
long  lain  loose  in  the  fine  fabric  of  his  mind. 

"I  never  saw  you  look  so  happy.  Faith,  and 


270  TOLLIVER'S    FOOL 

it  rejoices  my  heart,  but  I  am,  like  all  men, 
selfish;  and  I  cannot  help  wishing  that  you 
loved  me  well  enough  to  give  up  your  idea  of 
graduating  and  make  me  happy,  too.  You 
could  go  on  studying  as  you  are — you  could 
have  an  instructor  if  you  wished.  I  haven't  a 
very  attractive  future  to  oflfer  you,  it  is  true :  I 
shall  soon  be  preaching  at  Pemberton  Brook  in 
a  little  church  not  much  bigger  than  a  mouse 
trap,  and  I  shall  have  to  go  there  every  Sunday 
rain  or  shine.  I  thought  I  wouldn't  mention 
this  again,  but  as  I  tell  you,  I'm  selfish:  I 
should  like  to  be  happy."  Caleb  looked  very 
forlorn.  "I  know,  too,  how  futile  it  is  to  urge 
you,  for  your  heart  is  set  on  the  form  of 
graduating;  you've  made  up  your  mind,  and 
that  settles  it,  I  suppose."  Caleb  spoke  with 
some  bitterness.  Faith  smiled  quizzically,  but 
Caleb  was  not  looking  at  her;  he  was  examin- 
ing the  handle  of  his  umbrella ;  one  of  the  rivets 
in  the  name  plate  had  become  loosened,  and  he 
was  trying  to  press  it  back  with  his  thumb  nail. 

"You  certainly  wouldn't  wish  me  to  change 
my  mind  after  I've  got  it  all  made  up,  Caleb." 

"Indeed  I  would,"  was  the  quick  reply.  "It 
would  do  you  good;  you're  just  a  little  too — 
too—" 


TOIyLIVER'S    FOOL  271 

"Stubborn?" 

"N — no — determined,  I  think  is  the  word." 

"I  tell  you,  you  do  not  wish  me  to  change 
my  mind,  Caleb.  Because  I've  changed  it  once ; 
I  changed  it  last  night  after  you  went  home.  If 
I  should  change  it  again,  you'd  have  to  ride  all 
alone  to  that  little  'mouse  trap  of  a — ' 

"Caleb !  How  you  scared  me.  You  were  so 
quick,"  stammered  Faith  blushing.  "No  one 
could  see  us  out  here;  the  shrubbery's  too 
thick.  Aunt  Hannah  ?  Oh,  she's  busy  getting 
supper — she  hardly  ever  looks  out  of  the 
window,  anyway." 

Faith's  cheeks  were  blazing  with  color,  as  a 
moment  later,  Caleb  backed  towards  the  gate, 
laughing,  and  she  turned  to  go  into  the  house. 

"It's  the  very  last  time  I  shall  ever  reprove 
you  for  haste,  Caleb  Garland,  so  now!  You 
needn't  come  over  tomorrow;  I  shall  not  be  at 
home."  And  with  her  golden  head  held  high, 
she  moved  slowly  towards  the  house,  glancing 
back  over  her  shoulder  now  and  again,  at  the 
tall,  willowy  form  of  her  lover,  riding  at  an 
easy  canter  towards  the  woods.  She  waited 
on  the  kitchen  porch  until  he  was  about  to  pass 
under  the  Green  Arch,  when  she  raised  her 
handkerchief  over  her  head  and  let  it  flutter  for 


272  TOLLIVER'S    FOOL 

a  moment  like  a  tiny  white  bird  held  by  the  leg. 
He  turned  just  in  time  to  see  a  twinkle  of  it, 
and  smiling,  raised  his  hat  as  he  disappeared 
into  the  dusky  woods.  A  happier  face  and  a 
lighter  heart  never  passed  under  the  Green 
Arch. 

"  'Pears  to  me,  Faithful,  't  you'd  ort  ter  hev  a 
leetle  somethin'  or  other  'round  yer  shoulders 
when  you  set  out  after  sundown.  What  a 
jumper  young  Mr.  Garland  is !" 

"A  jumper?" 

"Yes.  I've  been  sewin'  there  by  the  winder 
and  I  see  him  jump  over  the  fence.  Why  laws 
a  me,  he  never  even  teched  it.  That's  jest  the 
way  yer  Uncle  Hezekier  use'  ter  c'd  jump  afore 
we  was  married."  The  accusation  in  the 
emphasized  "we"  did  not  escape  Faith,  and  the 
dimples  in  her  cheeks  deepened,  but  she  said 
nothing,  as  she  had  already  decided  to  tell  Aunt 
Hannah  all  about  it  after  supper. 

They  sat  talking  on  the  door-step.  The  full 
moon  shone  in  their  faces  with  a  clear  silver 
light.  Faith  had  just  paused  after  telling  her 
secret.  A  cricket  somewhere  under  the  porch 
sang  an  interlude,  then  Hannah  burst  forth. 

"Wa'al,  for  massy's  sakes  alive!  You  don't 
tell!  I  never  heerd  o'  the  like  in  all  my  born 
days.     It  jes'  seems  to  me  's  if  I  can't  stan'  it 


TOLLIVER'S     FOOL,  273 

nohow.  The  idee!  In  six  weeks,  did  ye  say? 
Why,  laws  a  me !  That's  dretful  soon.  An' 
you're  goin'  on  studyin'  to  home — after  you're 
married.  I  hain't  a  word  to  say  agin  it,  though ; 
not  a  single  word.  He's  jest  the  likeliest  feller 
't  I  know  of.  He  makes  me  think  o'  Hezekier 
every  time  I  see  him  jump  over  the  fence." 
Hannah  wiped  off  with  her  apron  the  tears 
that  were  streaming  down  her  face.  They  sat, 
silent,  for  a  few  minutes.  Already  Hannah's 
provident  nature  had  begun  action  in  the  new 
field  that  lay  open  before  her.  The  cricket 
went  on  with  his  song,  and  Tiger  rubbed  his 
smooth  sides  against  Faith's  arm,  pleading  with 
soft  purring  for  his  meed  of  attention. 

"Do  you  like  that  red  star  quilt  o'  mine, 
Faithful?  Er  would  you  ruther  the  basket 
pattern?  You  kin  hev  jest  whichever  one  you 
like  best,  an'  you  kin  hev  jest  as  many  yarbs 
as  you  need;  I'll  jest  divide  with  ye.  I've  got 
more  leptander  'n  I  kin  ever  use.  You  can  hev 
half  I've  got.  You  kin  have  some  saffron,  too, 
an'  some  catnip.  I  hain't  got  much  catnip,  but 
you  kin  hev  all  I've  got.  I  gin  a'most  all  I  had 
to  Mis'  Blackmore's  niece  when  her  twins  was 
born.  I'll  gether  a  lot  o'  fresh  when  I  go  down 
to  Pemberton  again.  They's  lots  there." 
There  was  another  silence.     Tiger,  emboldened 


274  TOLLIVER'S    FOOL 

by  Faith's  gently  smoothing  his  fur,  had  coiled 
himself  up  in  her  lap  for  a  doze. 

"I  s'pose  you'll  'stand  up'  in  white,  Faithful." 
Faith  nodded,  adding:  "I  suppose  so,  but  I. 
hadn't  thought  about  it." 

"What  would  you  think — ud — look  best — for 
me  to — wear?"  Hannah  spoke  with  hesita- 
tion. Her  brown  silk  had  received  one  severe 
snub,  and  the  fear  of  another  weakened  her 
voice,  though  her  own  faith  in  her  best  dress 
had  weathered  the  storm  of  abuse  and  remained 
unshaken.     Faith  looked  up  quickly. 

"Why,  wear  your  brown  silk,  of  course." 

"Jest  as  'tis,  Faithful? — with  the  shoulder 
cape?"  This  was  the  "tug  of  war,"  and  the 
poor  old  woman  choked  with  apprehension. 

"Why,  certainly  with  the  cape  on.  And  you 
must  wear  your  lace  collar,  and  your  cameo 
breastpin,  and  your  gold  chain,  with  the  seal 
pencil." 

"Yes,  I  guess  that'll  look  jest  about  as  well  's 
anything  't  I've  got,"  she  replied,  with  bridled 
acquiescence.  As  she  turned  her  head,  the 
moon  shone  full  in  her  face ;  it  was  a  picture  of 
content ;  her  beloved  finery  was  vindicated,  and 
would  once  more  shine  at  a  wedding.  The 
leaves  rustled  softly  as  they  sat,  silent.  Hannah 
spoke  in  a  low  tone. 


TOLLIVER'S    FOOL  275 

"Mine's  a'most  jest  the  color  of  a  new  one 
Mrs.  Bridgman  had  on  to  meetin',  one  day,  two 
— three  weeks  ago." 

"What,  Aunt  Hannah?" 

"My  brown  silk  dress.  I  say  it's  a'most  jest 
the  color  o'  one  Mis'  Bridgman  wears." 

"Mrs.  Bridgman  wears  black  now,  poor 
thing,"  observed  Faith.  "You  know  she  lost 
her  son  last  week.  He  was  one  of  Mandy's 
teachers." 

"Oh,  yes.  He  was  one  of  the  p'ofessers  I 
heerd  you  an'  Mandy  an'  Ben  talkin'  'bout 
'tother  day,  that  died  settin'  up  in  his  chair. 
What  was  it  Mandy  said  he  died  with  in  his 
hands,  Faithful? 

"The  curriculum,  Aunt  Hannah.  He  died 
sitting  at  his  desk  with  the  curriculum  in  his 
hands." 

"Poor  dear  man,  how  he  must  'a'  suffered! 
My  ban's  has  felt  kinder  queer  lately — 'pears 
to  be  a  kind  of — wa'al  I  dunno's  I  kin  jes'  tell — 
but  when  I  fust  wake  up  in  the  morin',  they's  a 
kind  of  a — What'd  you  say,  Faithful?  What 
be  you  smilin'  for  ?" 

"Why,  I  said  I  hadn't  heard  you  complain  for 
a  long  time  of  the  misery  in  your  stomach,  or 
the  agony  in  your  left  leg.  I  guess  they  must 
have  got  well,  haven't  they?"     For  a  moment 


276  TOIylrlVBR'S    FOOL, 

Hannah   seemed  a  little   disconcerted   at   the 
observation  of  her  niece,  then  she  said: 

"I've  had  so  much  to  do  an'  to  think  about 
an'  to  ten'  to  sence  I've  been  stapn'  over  here, 
't  I've  neglected  myself  shameful.  I'll  go  right 
straight  off  and  make  me  some  penerile  tea  an' 
drink  it." 


THE  WIDOW  PERKINS 


277 


THE  WIDOW  PERKINS 

"Dear  me,  there's  a  fly!  first  one  I've  seen 
this  spring.  Merandy,  I  wish  you'd  come  in 
here  an'  ketch  this  fly.  There  he  is,  a-settin' 
on  that  tidy." 

Tabitha  Perkins  was  a  widow.  She  sat  by 
the  window,  felling  the  seams  of  a  nightgown. 
She  was  a  tall,  thin,  dignified  woman  of  fifty, 
with  a  face  that  would  have  been  comely  had  it 
been  less  severe.  She  thought  more  about  her 
enemies  than  about  her  friends;  more  about 
the  cruelty  and  injustice  of  mankind  than 
about  the  mercy  and  goodness  of  God.  She 
had  dressed  since  she  was  forty  in  either  grey 
or  black.  She  wore  her  silvery  brown  hair  in 
three  long  curls  on  either  side,  with  the  re- 
mainder twisted  into  a  knot,  high  on  the  crown 
of  her  head.  A  broad  tortoise  shell  comb  sur- 
mounted the  knot. 

Tabitha  was  painfully  industrious  and  obtru- 
sively neat.  It  had  even  been  said  that  she 
scoured  the  nail  heads  in  the  board  fence  in 
front    of   her    house,    and    that    she    had    five 

279 


280  THE     WIDOW     PERKINS 

different  dish  cloths  in  daily  use.  She  denied 
stoutly  ever  having  scoured  the  nail  heads,  but 
owned  up  frankly  to  the  five  dish  cloths.  They 
were  all  marked  neatly  in  a  corner  with  red 
thread  and  hung  in  a  row  over  the  sink.  On 
the  first  one  were  the  letters  "M.  P.  &  P."— 
milk  pail  and  pans ;  on  the  next  one,  "G.  W." — 
glass  ware;  on  the  next,  "C.  &  S." — cups  and 
saucers;  the  next,  "A.  O.  D.  &  C."— all  other 
dishes  and  cutlery ;  and  the  last  one  in  the  row, 
which  was  a  size  larger  than  the  others,  was 
marked  "I.  W.  &  S." — iron  ware  and  stove. 

Miranda  Jenkins  was  a  niece  of  the  widow 
Perkins,  the  orphan  child  of  her  only  brother. 
She  was  about  twenty-four  and  had  lived  with 
her  aunt  since  she  was  five  years  old.  She  was 
almost  dwarfish  in  size,  with  a  white,  freckled 
face,  large,  yellowish  grey  eyes,  and  an  abund- 
ance of  red  hair.  She  gave  one,  at  a  passing 
glance,  the  impression  of  being  mostly  eyes  and 
hair,  and  it  was  not  until  after  recovering  from 
the  peculiar  shock  produced  by  so  much  eyes 
and  hair,  that  one  saw  her  pleasant,  passive  face 
and  pretty,  childish  lips  emerging,  as  it  seemed, 
from  a  shadow. 

Miranda  Jenkins  rarely  gave  expression  to 
her  thoughts.     The  widow  Perkins,  in  her  en- 


THE     WIDOW     PERKINS  281 

deavor  to  improve  upon  the  maxim  that  young 
people  should  be  seen  and  not  heard,  had  taught 
her  niece  that  she  should  be  neither  seen  nor 
heard.  If  asked  her  opinion  on  any  subject, 
Miranda's  reply  was  almost  invariably,  "I 
dunno,  what  do  you  think?" 

The  people  of  the  village  rarely  took  the 
trouble  to  address  any  remarks  to  her  now 
beyond  the  customary,  "how  di  do,"  many  con- 
sidering her  dull.  Only  the  few  who  knew  her 
intimately,  and  had  noticed  the  unspoken 
philosophy  and  originality  of  her  ways,  gave  her 
credit  for  ordinary  intelligence. 

Mrs.  Perkins  watched  her  niece  with  untiring 
vigilance  lest  she  drift  into  slovenly  habits.  Un- 
cleanliness,  in  Tabitha's  unwritten  creed,  was 
almost  the  unpardonable  sin.  She  would 
pounce  upon  the  girl  at  unexpected  moments, 
snatch  the  dish  cloth  from  her  hands,  and 
examine  the  embroidered  letters  in  the  corner 
to  make  sure  that  the  blood  of  her  ancestors 
was  not  being  disgraced  by  a  Jenkins  forming 
untidy  habits. 

Both  women  wore  felt  shoes  about  the  house 
because  leather  ones  were  wearing  on  the 
carpet;  consequently  their  footsteps  were  as 
noiseless  as  those  of  a  cat. 


282  THE     WIDOW     PERKINS 

There  were  four  rooms  in  the  little  one  story- 
cottage  besides  the  kitchen,  parlor,  sitting- 
room  and  two  bedrooms.  The  parlor  was 
furnished  with  a  bright  Brussels  carpet,  with 
large,  sprawling  figures,  plain  muslin  curtains, 
a  set  of  black  haircloth  furniture,  and  a  small 
marble  center  table.  The  principal  ornaments 
were  a  straw-and-bead  "air-castle"  hanging 
from  the  ceiling,  a  hair  wreath  in  a  frame,  a 
large  picture  of  Washington  on  horseback,  and 
some  wax  pond  lilies  under  a  glass  globe  on 
the  table. 

In  the  sitting-room  was  a  striped  rag  carpet, 
flag-bottom  chairs,  and  numerous  home-made 
rugs  of  braided  rags. 

Miranda  came  in  from  the  kitchen  with  a  little 
hitch  in  her  step ;  one  leg  was  shorter  than  the 
other. 

"Where  is  the  fly,  Aunt  Tabby?" 

"Why,  right  there  on  the  back  o'  the  rockin' 
chair.  Now  be  sure  you  git  him,  Merandy; 
flies  do  make  a  house  look  so  untidy,  an'  it  puts 
me  all  on  aige  to  see  one." 

"Yes'm,"  murmured  the  girl.  Miranda  drew 
back  her  arm  and  took  aim.  With  a  swoop  that 
whirled  her  half  round,  her  hand  skimmed  the 
back  of  the  chair.  She  opened  her  fist 
one  finger  at  a  time,  while  her  intended  victim 


THE     WIDOW     PERKINS  283 

sat  on  the  edge  of  the  pink  china  lamp  shade, 
rubbing  his  head  with  his  forelegs  in  a  con- 
gratulatory fashion. 

"Did  ye  git  him,  Mirandy"  asked  her  aunt 
without  looking  up. 

"No,  he  got  away." 

"You're  too  slow,  child,  you're  too  mortal 
slow.  Now,  where  is  that  fly  ?  I  s'pose  I'll  hev 
to  ketch  him  myself.  Oh,  there  he  is  on  the 
lamp  shade;  I  see  him.  Now,  don't  you  come 
near  or  you'll  scare  him." 

Miranda,  with  her  arms  behind  her,  backed 
up  against  the  wall  and  stood  still.  Tabitha 
laid  down  her  work  and  stepped  cautiously 
toward  the  small,  wary  intruder,  her  long  arm 
extended. 

"Now  you  watch  me,  Merandy;  you'll  see  't 
you've  got  to  be  quick  to  ketch  a  fly." 

She  made  a  nice  calculation,  brought  her 
hand  down  with  a  sweeping  stroke,  and  the 
pink  lamp  shade  lay  in  a  thousand  fragments  at 
her  feet. 

"Did  ye  git  him,  Aunt  Tabby?"  asked  the 
girl,  stepping  forward  without  a  change  in  the 
expression  of  her  face. 

"Of  course  I  did,"  she  snapped  out,  giving 
her  niece  a  withering  look.  "Seems  to  me  you 
couldn't  'a'  fastened  that  shade  on  very  well, 


284  THE     WIDOW     PERKINS 

Merandy.  Go  git  that  blue  one  and  wash  it, 
an'  sweep  up  these  pieces." 

"Why,  don't  ye  know  you  put  the  shade  on 
yerself  while  I  was  cleanin' — There  must  'a' 
been  two  flies.  Aunt  Tabby,  fer  there's  one  now 
settin'  right  on  top  o'  your  comb.  Hold  reel 
still  an'  I'll  be  quick  an'  see  if  I  can't  ketch 
him;"  and  Miranda  drew  back  her  arm. 

"No,  never  mind  the  fly,  Merandy,  go  out  an' 
ten'  to  yer  beans;  'pears  to  me  I  smell  'em 
burnin'." 

"O,  no  ye  don't,  I  ain't  put  'em  on  yet,  they're 
soakin'." 

"Well,  then,  put  'em  on  or  they  won't  git 
done  fer  dinner." 

Tabitha  picked  up  her  work  and  resumed  her 
sewing.  She  always  sewed  as  if  her  life  de- 
pended upon  it,  rarely  taking  time  to  glance 
out  of  the  window,  excepting  when  she  unreeled 
and  bit  oflF  a  new  thread,  when  she  could  glance 
up  and  down  the  road  without  losing  any  time. 
The  needle  came  up  with  a  little  more  of  a  jerk 
than  usual  after  the  fly  hunt,  but  it  soon  sub- 
sided into  the  regular,  even  motion. 

Mrs.  Perkins  had  a  way  of  giving  herself 
"stents,"  and  she  would  do  her  stent  if  she  had 
to  sit  up  half  the  night. 

"Why,  there  comes  Mary  Blake.     I  wonder 


THE     WIDOW     PERKINS  285 

what  she  wants,  I  hope  her  mother  ain't  got 
another  turn,  she  jest  hed  one  last  week." 

Tabitha  bit  off  her  thread  and  set  the  spool 
back  on  the  window  sill.  The  door  was  wide 
open. 

The  child  stood  on  the  step,  rapping  with  her 
soft  knuckles  on  the  door  post  without  making 
as  much  noise  as  the  pecking  of  a  fledgling. 
She  stepped  about,  lifting  one  foot  then  the 
other;  the  sun  shining  on  the  stone  step  had 
heated  it,  so  that  it  burned  her  bare  feet. 
Tabitha  could  see  the  edge  of  her  blue  dress 
and  she  wondered  why  she  didn't  come  in ;  she 
had  no  idea  the  child  was  knocking. 

"Come  in,  Mary,  what  ye  standin'  there  fer?" 

The  little  girl  edged  slowly  in,  with  one  finger 
between  her  lips,  and  slid  sidewise  into  the  first 
chair  she  came  to.  Her  black  eyes  shone  like 
polished  ebony  under  her  pink  sunbonnet,  and 
she  kept  them  fixed  in  an  apprehensive  gaze  on 
Tabitha's  face.  Her  little  brown  toes  hung 
about  four  inches  from  the  floor;  one  of  them 
had  a  dirty  rag  wound  round  it. 

"How's  yer  ma,  Mary?"  The  child  cleared 
her  throat  a  little,  and  blushed,  but  made  no 
reply.  Tabitha  took  a  few  more  stitches  and 
looked  up  again. 

"Is  she  pretty  well?" 


286  THE     WIDOW     PERKINS 

No  reply.  Tabitha  took  a  few  more  stitches. 
"You've  got  a  sore  toe,  ain't  ye,  Mary?" 

The  little  girl  glanced  down  at  the  injured 
member,  then  back  to  the  woman's  face  as  if 
her  eyes  were  drawn  there  by  a  magnetism  too 
strong  to  overcome. 

Tabitha  went  on  sewing,  forgetting  the  child's 
presence  until  she  looked  up  to  reel  off  another 
thread. 

"Yer  ma  ain't  got  another  turn,  has  she^ 
Mary?     She's  pretty  well,  ain't  she?" 

There  was  an  almost  imperceptible  nod  of  the 
pink  sunbonnet;  Tabitha  thought  she  saw  the 
strings  move  a  little,  then  a  double  sigh,  almost 
a  sob,  shook  the  child's  frame. 

"Here's  an  empty  spool  fer  ye,  Mary,  come 
an'  git  it  if  ye  want  it.  I  must  go  in  the  bed- 
room now  an'  git  a  new  spool;  I'll  be  right 
back,"  she  added,  soothingly ;  but  when  she  re- 
turned, her  visitor  and  the  empty  spool  had 
disappeared. 

"I  do  wonder  what  the  child  wanted.  I  guess 
I'll  go  over  and  see.  'Twon't  take  me  more 
than  fifteen  minutes,  an'  I  can  finish  my  stent 
b'fore  candle  light  if  I  do  leave  it  a  few  minutes. 
I  can  toe  off  that  stockin'  as  I  walk  along." 

Tabitha  walked  down  the  road  with  slow, 
measured  steps,  looking  up  only  when  she  knit 


THE     WIDOW     PERKINS  287 

a  needle  out.  When  she  reached  Mrs.  Blake's 
gate,  she  rolled  up  her  work  and  put  it  in  her 
knitting  bag  that  hung  at  her  side. 

Mrs.  Blake  was  weeding  the  garden.  Tabitha 
thought  the  onion  bed  came  too  near  the  front 
door,  and  she  was  just  thinking  when  Mrs. 
Blake  looked  up,  that  if  she  were  obliged  to 
use  her  front  yard  for  a  vegetable  garden,  she 
would  have  sown  lettuce,  or  sage,  or  parsley 
close  to  the  door,  and  put  the  onions  as  far 
away  as  possible. 

"Why,  how  di  do.  Mis'  Perkins?  I  hope  ye 
ain't  come  over  to  tell  me  you  an'  Mirandy  can't 
come  to  the  sewin'  bee,  you're  sech  a  fast — " 

"What  sewin'  bee  ?  I  ain't  heard  o'  no  sewin' 
bee." 

"Why,  I  sent  Mary  over  to  ask  ye,"  said  Mrs. 
Blake,  wiping  her  warm,  dusty  face  on  a  corner 
of  her  apron.  "You  know  I  intended  to  hev  it 
last  week,  but  I  had  a  turn.  It's  tomorrer  after- 
noon. Mis'  Perkins.     Didn't  Mary  ask  ye?" 

"No,  she  come  over,  but  she  never  said  a 
word.  We'll  come  though;  we  can  come  jes' 
as  well's  not.    Yer  lettuce  is  comin'  up,  ain't  it?" 

"Yes,  it's  a  new  kind  o'  lettuce;  I  got  the 
seed  o'  Mr.  Jameson;  you  can  have  some  seed 
this  fall  if  ye  want  it,  Mis'  Perkins.  They  say 
the  leaves  grow  most  as  big  as  cabbage  leaves." 


288  THE     WIDOW     PERKINS 

"Yes,  I  sh'd  like  to  git  some,  mine's  the  little 
kind,  but  it  comes  airly.  I've  got  some  most 
big  enough  t'eat  a' ready." 

"Why  laws  a  me,  that  is  airly !" 

"Couldn't  you  bring  cake  to  the  sewin'  bee 
jes'  as  well  as  any  thing.  Mis'  Perkins?  Mis' 
Tolbert's  goin'  to  bring  jelly  and  currant  jam, 
an'  Mis'  Jones  is  goin'  to  bring  preserve 
peaches  an'  cheese,  an'  Em'ly's  goin'  to  bring 
tongue  an'  pickles,  an'  I'm  goin'  to  furnish  the 
hot  rolls  and  tea.  I  lef  the  cake  fer  you,  'cause 
you're  so  good  on  cake.  Mis'  Perkins." 

"Why,  I'd  jest  as  liv's  bring  cake  as  anything; 
yes,  I'll  bring  cake." 

Tabitha  stood  holding  her  skirts  up  almost 
to  her  knees;  there  was  something  about  the 
very  presence  of  Mrs.  Blake  that  made  her  feel 
like  holding  up  her  skirts.  "Well,  I  mus'  be 
goin',  Mis'  Blake,  good  afternoon." 

"Good  afternoon.  Mis'  Perkins,  now  I  shell 
look  fer  you  an'  Merandy  airly." 

"Yes,  we'll  come  airly." 

As  soon  as  the  gate  swung  shut,  Tabitha  took 
out  her  knitting  and  moved  like  an  automaton 
along  the  narrow  path  beside  the  road  leading 
to  her  own  gate. 

"Merandy,  be  you  sure  you  washed  these 
tumblers  with  the  G.  W.  cloth?     Seems  to  me 


THE     WIDOW     PERKINS  289 

I  see  a  speck  on  this  one."  They  had  just  set 
down  to  supper. 

"Yes'm,  I  did,  I'm  sure." 

"I  guess  that  speck's  in  the  glass  then;  it 
mus'  be."  She  held  it  up  toward  the  window, 
lowered  her  glasses  from  the  top  of  her  head 
and  inspected  it  closely.  "Yes,  it's  in  the  glass. 
You  mus'  be  careful,  Merandy." 

"Yes'm." 

They  had  for  supper  a  small  dish  of  cold 
boiled  beans,  bread  and  butter,  gooseberry  pre- 
serves and  tea. 

Miranda,  when  she  heard  of  the  sewing  bee, 
was  like  a  pea  on  a  griddle.  A  bright  red  spot 
glowed  on  each  cheek.  The  charity  balls  of 
Pepperton  were  the  sewing  bees  and  quiltings. 
Sometimes  the  young  men  came  in  the  evening, 
when  there  were  plays,  such  as  "Snap  and  kiss 
'em,"  "Button,  button,"  "Drop  the  handker- 
chief," etc.,  but  never  at  Mrs.  Blakes ;  her  house 
was  too  small. 

''What  shall  I  wear.  Aunt  Tabby?" 

"Why,  your  black  silk,  of  course."  The  "of 
course"  was  brought  out  as  if  the  respectability 
of  the  Jenkinses  had  been  brought  into  ques- 
tion. 

Miranda  had  never  worn  her  black  silk.  It 
had  been  made  up  for  her  (out  of  an  old  one 


290  THE     WIDOW     PERKINS 

that  had  been  her  mother's)  for  more  than 
three  months  and  she  had  never  had  an  op- 
portunity to  wear  it  in  reaUty,  though  she  had 
many  times  worn  it  in  her  dreams.  In  her 
dreams,  it  had  been  by  turns,  torn  beyond 
repair,  stolen,  and  burned  up;  and  the  night 
before  it  had,  in  the  twinkHng  of  an  eye,  turned 
into  a  pair  of  broadcloth  pantaloons. 

Miranda  was  so  worried  when  she  woke  up 
that  she  lit  her  candle,  opened  the  large  bottom 
drawer  in  her  bureau,  unpinned  the  sheet  her 
dress  was  wrapped  in,  and  examined  it  to  make 
sure  it  was  a  dress.  When  she  saw  the  two 
sleeves  with  ruffles  of  lace  in  the  wrists  crossed 
reverently  on  the  bosom,  and  the  row  of  jet 
buttons  that  gHttered  in  the  candle  Hght,  she 
crept  back  into  bed  satisfied. 

"Merandy,  don't  be  a-settin'  there  with  idle 
hands.  If  you're  done  eatin'  you  better  peel 
them  cold  boiled  potatoes  to  fry  fer  breakfast, 
an'  when  you've  got  that  done,  sift  the  flour 
for  the  cake ;  it's  got  to  be  baked  tonight  so  it'll 
be  cold  fer  tomorrer.  I've  got  to  go  right  to 
my  sewin'  or  I  sha'n't  git  my  stent  done." 

Tabitha  made,  according  to  her  theory,  every 
motion  count.  Her  hand  flew  up  from  the 
limp  muslin  with  marvelous  speed  and  almost 
mechanical  regularity.  One  would  have  thought 


THE     WIDOW     PERKINS  291 

to  see  her  work,  that  something  must  have 
happened  to  all  of  her  nightgowns  at  once,  and 
that  she  was  obliged  to  finish  this  one  before 
she  could  possibly  go  to  bed. 

Tabitha  Perkins  always  sat  up  straight;  it 
was  not  natural  for  her  to  bend  either  physically 
or  metaphorically.  In  her  effort  to  resist  the 
pressure  of  age,  she  bore  herself  at  fifty  more 
erectly,  if  not  more  gracefully,  than  she  had 
done  at  thirty. 

She  was  at  heart,  and  always  had  been,  a 
Methodist,  though  for  twenty  years  she  had 
been  a  regular  attendant  at  the  Baptist  church. 

At  the  age  of  twenty-eight,  Tabitha  Perkins 
became  a  widow.  Two  years  later  she  began 
receiving  the  attentions  of  an  old  lover  whom 
she  had,  by  parental  authority,  been  forced  to 
discard  on  account  of  his  wild  ways  and  in- 
attention to  business,  and  who  had,  since  her 
marriage,  reformed  and  become  a  pillar  of  the 
church. 

Jonathan  Allen  had  loved  the  tall,  graceful 
Tabitha  Jenkins  with  all  his  better  self,  and 
when  he  returned  from  one  of  his  vagabond 
trips  to  Boston,  resolved  that  it  should  be  the 
last,  he  was  bitterly  disappointed  to  find  that 
Tabitha's  engagement  to  his  hated  rival, 
Richard  Perkins,  had  just  been  announced. 


292  THE     WIDOW     PERKINS 

On  the  last  evening  of  the  protracted  meet- 
ings in  the  winter  following  Tabitha's  marriage, 
Jonathan  Allen  rose  from  his  seat  behind  the 
stove,  and,  with  an  air  of  defiance  and  an  im- 
patient jerk  of  his  broad  shoulders,  as  if  he 
would  shake  ofif  some  restraining  influence, 
"went  forward"  to  the  surprise  of  everybody, 
and  knelt  at  the  mourners'  bench. 

Whatever  it  was  that  took  place,  he  rose  a 
changed  man,  and  on  the  first  opportunity 
joined  the  Methodist  church  of  which  Tabitha 
and  her  husband  had  long  been  members. 

At  the  age  of  thirty  (two  years  after  her  hus- 
band's death)  the  widow  put  ofif  all  outward 
show  of  grief,  and  when  she  appeared  at  meet- 
ing one  Sunday  morning  early  in  September, 
dressed  in  violet  lawn  and  white  ribbons,  at 
least  one  good  brother  voted  her  more  charm- 
ing than  ever. 

The  following  Sunday  Jonathan  walked  home 
with  her  from  class-meeting  and  on  the  next 
Sunday  evening,  when  they  came  walking  into 
meeting  together,  the  sisters  gave  one  another 
knowing  looks  and  whispered  behind  their 
hymn  books.  Every  one  of  them  had  known 
all  along  just  how  it  would  be.  They  were  all 
glad  too,  good  souls  (with  the  exception  of  two 


THE     WIDOW     PERKINS  293 

or  three  mothers  with  grown  daughters  of  their 
own),  for  they  had  long  known  of  Jonathan's 
love  for  Tabitha,  and  the  sight  of  his  face  every 
Sunday  for  five  years,  when  brother  and  sister 
Perkins  walked  into  meeting,  had  kept  their 
pity  on  edge. 

When  the  snows  of  winter  came  on,  Jonathan 
and  Tabitha  were  living  in  that  delicious  chaotic 
state  of  love's  uncertainty,  between  the  ecstatic 
joy  of  absolute  belief  and  shivering  shadows  of 
doubt,  verging  on  an  understanding. 

One  bitter  cold  Sunday  night  between  Christ- 
mas and  New  Year,  Jonathan  Allen,  accom- 
panied by  the  minister,  Elder  Crane,  and  one 
of  the  trustees,  Carlos  Doolittle,  was  wading 
through  the  deep  snow  past  the  house  of  the 
young  widow  Perkins.  They  had  been  out  to 
pay  a  visit  to  one  of  their  oldest  brothers,  who 
lay  at  death's  door  with  paralysis.  On  account 
of  the  deep  snow,  there  was  no  service  at  the 
church  on  this  Sunday  evening. 

Jonathan's  heart  beat  faster  and  the  hot  blood 
of  youth  rushed  wildly  through  his  veins  as 
they  came  up  even  with  Tabitha's  little  white 
cottage  and  saw  a  light  shining  in  her  bedroom 
window. 

"Why,  I  wonder  what  Sister  Perkins  is  up 


294  THE     WIDOW     PERKINS 

SO  late  for,"  said  the  minister.  "It  must  be  near 
eleven  o'clock."  (In  Pepperton  nine  o'clock 
was  considered  bed  time.) 

"I  hope  there's  nothin'  wrong,  I  hope  she's 
well.  Mebbe — mebbe  we'd  better — mebbe 
one  of  us  'd  better — "  said  Elder  Crane,  casting 
a  significant  look  at  Jonathan — "mebbe  you'd 
better  just  walk  up  to  the  door  and  see  if  any- 
body's sick.  Brother  Allen." 

Jonathan,  with  a  set  face  and  white  lips,  had 
faced  about  and  stood  staring  at  the  lighted 
window  where,  on  the  lowered  shade,  was 
clearly  outlined  the  dark  silhouette  of  the 
woman  he  loved,  knitting  as  if  her  life  or  that 
of  some  one  else  depended  upon  it. 

The  three  men  stood  in  line,  knee  deep  in 
snow,  staring  blankly  at  the  dark  picture.  As 
if  of  one  mind,  each  man  drew  out  his  watch; 
it  was  ten  minutes  before  eleven.  The  watches 
snapped  in  unison  and  were  replaced  in  their 
pockets. 

The  minister's  eyes  were  raised  for  a  moment 
to  the  heavens  and  he  murmured  in  a  low,  hoarse 
voice,  tremulous  with  emotion,  "May  the  Lord 
have  mercy." 

Jonathan  was  glad  the  snow  was  deep;  it 
gave  him  an  excuse  for  staggering.  The  wind 
was  blowing  hard,  beating  their  cold,  wet  faces 


THE     WIDOW     PERKINS  295 

with  sharp,  cutting  snow.  The  three  men  parted 
without  exchanging  a  word  as  to  what  they  had 
seen.  Jonathan  wiped  the  frozen  tears  from 
his  face  as  he  entered  his  own  gate.  He  could 
hardly  see  the  path  through  his  ice-bound 
lashes.  His  mother,  who  kept  house  for  him, 
was  in  bed;  he  closed  the  door  softly  so  as  not 
to  wake  her. 

"Did  ye  shet  the  entry  door  when  ye  come  in, 
Johnny?"  came  in  a  piping  voice  from  the  bed- 
room. 

"Yes,  mother." 

"I  wish  you'd  see  if  I  wound  the  clock, 
Johnny." 

"Yes,  mother." 

"An'  put  a  few  more  sticks  o'  wood  in  the 
stove." 

"Yes,  mother." 

"It's  a  dretful  cold  night,  ain't  it  ?" 

"Pretty  cold." 

"How  did  ye  find  old  Father  Smith,  Johnny?" 

"Very  bad,  mother." 

"Ain't  he  no  better?" 

"No." 

There  was  a  deep  sigh  in  the  bedroom 
followed  by  an  audible  groan  and  a  few 
whispered  words. 

"Johnny." 


296  THE     WIDOW     PERKINS 

"What  is  it,  mother?" 

"Do  you  think  them  pertaters  '11  freeze?" 

"No,  I  don't."  The  note  of  irritation  in  the 
reply  to  Mrs.  Allen's  last  question  seemed  to 
have  a  soothing  effect,  for  the  bed  squeaked  out 
the  information  that  she  was  turning  over. 

For  two  hours  Jonathan  sat  silent  and  almost 
immovable  before  the  fire.  There  was  only  one 
thing  to  be  done,  he  decided.  He  must  have  a 
serious  talk  with  Tabitha;  for  no  longer  ago 
than  that  very  Sunday  morning  she  had  spoken 
in  class-meeting,  saying :  "What  a  blessed  thing 
it  is  to  have  a  clean  conscience  before  God." 
"Good  Heaven !"  he  thought,  "and  I  was  about 
to  ask  her  to  be  my  wife.  How  can  she  be  such 
a  hypocrite?  She  don't  look  it,  an'  she  don't 
act  it  usu'ly,  I  can't  git  it  through  my  brain 
nohow — Why,  Tabithy — I'd  'a'  staked  my  life 
on  Tabithy;"  and  a  fresh  flood  of  tears  rolled 
down  his  cheeks. 

"I  was  told  las'  summer  that  she  knit  on  Sun- 
days but  I  didn't  b'lieve  it  an'  I  can't  skeercely 
b'lieve  it  now  when  I  see  it  with  m'own  eyes.  I 
can  never  ask  her  to  be  my  wife  now, — unless — 
unless  she  repents." 

It  was  on  this  provision  that  Jonathan  hung 
his  hopes,  as  he  took  the  nearly  burned  out 
candle  and  walked  up  the  narrow  stairway  to 


THE     WIDOW     PERKINS  297 

his  cheerless  room.  Some  water  in  a  tumbler 
that  stood  on  his  table  was  frozen  solid  and 
bulged  up  in  the  middle. 

"Yes,  I  must  have  a  real  serious  talk  with 
Tabithy,"  said  Jonathan,  as  he  wet  his  fingers 
and  pinched  the  charred  smoking  wick  of  his 
candle  then  crept  into  bed.  "I  don't  b'lieve  the 
poor  girl  realizes  that  she's  a  breakin'  the 
Sabbath."  And  then  Tabitha,  all  unconscious 
of  the  burden  on  her  lover's  heart,  was  carried, 
with  all  her  sins,  to  the  throne  of  grace  in 
earnest  prayer. 

Jonathan  had  a  serious  talk  with  Tabitha, 
which  ended  more  seriously  than  he  had  an- 
ticipated. 

She  was  most  exasperating  in  her  obstinacy, 
and  would  neither  admit  nor  deny  knitting  on 
Sundays.  She  told  him  she  thought  she  was 
old  enough  to  judge  for  herself  as  to  what  was 
right  and  she  "wouldn't  be  dictated  to  by 
nobody."  The  interview  ended,  finally,  by  her 
ordering  him  out  of  doors. 

Tabitha  continued  to  go  to  meeting,  but  now 
a  cold  wave  of  disapproval  swept  over  her  each 
time  she  crossed  the  well-worn  threshold  of  the 
little  church,  over  which  she  had  walked  with 
uncertain  baby  steps,  clinging  to  her  mother's 
finger,  longer  ago  than  she  could  remember; 


298  THE     WIDOW     PERKINS 

over  which  she  had  stepped  with  white  slippered 
feet  as  a  bride,  and  over  which  she  had  trailed 
her  first  garments  of  mourning  in  the  wake  of 
her  husband's  coffin. 

Two  weeks  after  her  quarrel  with  Jonathan, 
at  the  Wednesday  evening  prayer-meeting,  the 
climax  came,  Tabitha  neither  prayed  nor  spoke ; 
a  feeling  that  the  brothers  and  sisters  had  lost 
faith  in  her  kept  her  silent. 

Just  before  the  meeting  should  have  closed, 
there  was  an  embarrassing  silence  as  deep  and 
awful  as  if  the  whole  Methodist  church  had 
been  stranded.  A  few  were  kind  enough  to 
cough  a  little  to  relieve  the  strain. 

One  of  the  sisters,  who  was  by  nature  vision- 
ary, declared  afterwards  that  she  saw  a  dark 
cloud  come  down  from  somewhere  about  the 
stove  pipe  hole  and  hang  just  over  Tabitha's 
head.  But  few  beheved  her;  they  thought,  as 
no  one  else  saw  it,  that  she  must  have  imagined 
it. 

Finally  the  minister  rose,  and  said,  in  low 
measured  words,  rendered  more  impressive  by 
the  preceding  silence : 

"If  there  is  any  one  present  who  has  a  con- 
fession to  make — or — er  has  anything  to  repent 
of — any  secret  sins,  the  brothers  and  sisters  will 
be  glad  to  listen  to  her  confession ;  and  may  the 
Lord  help  us  to  be  honest." 


THE    WIDOW    PERKINS  299 

He  was  slowly  rubbing  the  palms  of  his  hands 
together,  and  his  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  ceiling 
over  the  door,  as  if  he  thought  it  just  possible 
that  a  few  secret  sins  might  show  themselves 
through  the  plastering. 

A  few  of  the  more  charitable  members 
glanced  surreptitiously  toward  Tabitha,  silently 
praying,  "The  Lord  help  her;"  a  few  others 
who  knew  not  charity,  glared  at  her  openly. 

Jonathan's  white  face  was  bowed  and  covered 
with  his  trembling  hands.  After  another 
minute  or  two  of  silence,  the  sinner  rose  to  her 
feet;  her  tall  body  swayed  a  little  as  if  she 
would  fall,  then  she  rested  her  hand  on  the 
door  of  her  pew,  stood  firmly,  and  turned  so  as 
to  face  most  of  them. 

"I  know  what  you  mean,"  she  began  in  a 
voice,  tremulous  with  indignation,  "I  know 
perfec'ly  well  you  mean  me,  an'  if  I  want  to  knit 
on  Sunday  I'm  a  goin'  to  do  it,  an'  I  sh'd  like  to 
see  anybody  stop  me.  I  know  pretty  well  who's 
to  the  bottom  o'  this,  too,"  with  a  sneering 
glance  at  poor  Jonathan,  who  would  have  died 
for  her  at  that  very  moment — "but  I  ain't  got 
no  secret  sins  that  I  know  of" — there  were 
groans  from  several  quarters — "an'  I  ain't  got 
nothing'  pertic'lar  to  repent  of,  nuther;  but  it 
'pears  to  me  that  there's  some  others  here  that 


300  THE     WIDOW     PERKINS 

ought  to  lead  off  in  repentin'."  She  choked  up 
a  little  here  and  put  her  fingers  to  her  white 
lips,  then  she  continued  in  a  calmer,  more 
natural  voice.  "I  mean  whoever  'twas  that 
hired  poor  ole  Grandfather  Buckley,  that's  over 
seventy  year  old ,  to  shovel  a  path  for  'em 
through  the  snow,  to  walk  to  meetin'  in,  fer  fifty 
cents,  an'  let  him  freeze  a-doin'  of  it  fer  want  o' 
clothes  to  keep  him  warm.  Them's  the  one's 
that  ought  to  confess  an'  repent  it  seems  to 
me."  Then  with  a  majestic  sweep  and  with  her 
nose  in  the  air,  she  walked  out  of  the  church. 

There  was  another  silence,  then  the  people 
rose,  and  the  minister  pronounced  the 
benediction. 

"I  don't  see  fer  my  part  what  she  can  be 
alludin'  to,"  remarked  Sister  Crabapple  as  she 
stepped  out  into  the  aisle.  "I  see  the  ole  man 
this  mornin'  an'  he  had  on  a  good  overcoat  an* 
a  nice,  new  pair  o'  warm  mittens."  Sister  Crab- 
apple  had  a  way  of  drawing  her  lips  when  she 
spoke,  as  if  she  had  just  tasted  of  something 
very  puckery. 

"God's  ways  is  past  findin'  out,"  remarked 
another  sister,  shooting  wide  of  the  mark  but 
feeling  that  she  ought  to  say  something. 

"Well,  it  'pears  to  me,  brothers  and  sisters," 
said  Sister  Doolittle,  in  a  weak,  cracked  voice 


THE     WIDOW     PERKINS  301 

(she  hesitated,  twisting  a  loose  thread  in  the 
finger  end  of  her  cotton  glove),  "that  mebbe 
we'd  ought  to  examine  our  own  eyes  before  we 
look  for  motes  in  other  folkses.  This  is  the 
only  fault  we  have  ever  found  in  Sister  Perkins." 

"Quite  right,  Sister  Doolittle,  quite  right," 
said  the  minister,  shaking  her  hand  warmly; 
then  he  made  a  few  remarks  on  charity,  and  the 
people  dispersed. 

Numerous  attempts  were  made  by  the  minis- 
ter and  prominent  members  of  the  church  to 
draw  Tabitha  into  a  confession  or  explanation 
of  her  conduct,  without  success.  They  could 
do  nothing  with  her,  as  she  would  not  discuss 
the  matter  at  all.  She  had  an  effectual  way  of 
shutting  people  up ;  of  ending  undesirable  con- 
versation. The  next  week  she  withdrew  from 
the  church. 

Twenty  years  had  gone  by  and  neither 
Jonathan  nor  Tabitha  had  married.  Jonathan 
had  many  times  tried  to  speak  to  Tabitha,  but 
she  always  appeared  to  be  looking  intently  at 
something  over  and  beyond  him. 

"I  don't  want  to  speak  to  folks  that  think  I'm 
a  hypocrite,"  she  had  replied  to  Miranda  when 
asked  why  she  had  not  bowed  when  Mr.  Allen 
raised  his  hat  and  spoke  to  her  at  the  Fourth  of 
July  celebration. 


302  THE     WIDOW     PERKINS 

Tabitha  and  Miranda  were  all  ready  for  the 
sewing  bee. 

"Merandy,  I  guess  we'd  better  take  my  sewin' 
machine  fixtures  over  to  Mis'  Blake.  The  chil- 
dren's lost  all  o'  her'n.  We  can  git  along  so 
much  faster  if  we  can  use  her  machine.  Ma- 
chine sewin's  good  enough  fer  them  children's 
clothes." 

Miranda's  hands  were  shaking  with  excite- 
ment. She  had  on  her  black  silk,  her  mother's 
gold  watch  and  chain,  and  a  breastpin  and  ear- 
rings of  cameo  that  had  been  in  the  Jenkins 
family  for  two  centuries  and  which  she  had 
never  before  been  allowed  to  wear. 

Tabitha  wore  her  black  silk,  a  broad 
crocheted  collar,  and  breastpin  and  earrings 
made  of  hair  of  her  dead  ancestors.  The  ear- 
rings were  long,  just  escaping  her  shoulders. 
Tabitha  always  remarked,  when  any  one  spoke 
of  the  beauty  and  wonderful  work  in  her 
jewelry,  that  every  hair  in  it  was  pure  Jenkins. 

When  Tabitha  and  Miranda  arrived  at  Mrs. 
Blake's,  the  sitting-room  was  already  half  full 
of  women  of  all  ages,  and  a  buzz  of  voices 
greeted  each  new  comer  as  the  door  opened  to 
admit  her. 

Emily  Tucker  was  just  taking  off  her  things 
in    Mrs.    Blake's    stuffy   little    bedroom    when 


THE     WIDOW     PERKINS  303 

Tabitha  and  Miranda  entered.  She  was  a 
spinster  of  forty-five,  short,  stout,  freckled  and 
fair.  People  called  her  good-hearted.  With 
all  her  faults  (some  thought  she  was  afflicted 
with  more  than  should  fall  to  the  lot  of  one 
woman),  Emily  was  good  natured.  She  was  a 
walking  bureau  of  information  (having  a  gift 
for  scenting  out  family  secrets),  and  the  best 
news  circulator  in  the  village.  She  nudged 
Tabitha  and  whispered : 

"The  Blodgett  woman's  here." 

"That  Blodgett  woman"  had  been  in  Pepper- 
ton  but  a  few  weeks.  She  had  moved  into  town 
from  a  little  farm  in  the  country,  where  her  hus- 
band had  died  three  years  before,  hoping  to  be 
able  to  make  a  living  for  herself  and  little  son 
Teddy,  by  keeping  boarders.  She  had  suc- 
ceeded finally  in  getting  two, — the  singing 
teacher  and  her  brother's  son  from  Glenwood, 
Jonas  Pelton. 

"Well,  what  if  she  is  here  ?  what  of  it  ?"  asked 
Tabitha,  who  saw  by  Emily's  face  that  she  had 
a  piece  of  news. 

"Why,  ain't  you  heard?"  and  Emily's  eyes, 
that  at  times  had  the  look  of  polished  brass, 
opened  wide  with  surprise. 

"No,  I  ain't  heard  nothin'." 

"Why,  they  do  say  that  Jonathan  Allen — " 


304  THE     WIDOW     PERKINS 

Emily  tiptoed  to  the  door  and  looked  up  and 
down  the  hall  to  make  sure  that  no  one  was 
coming — "is  a  goin'  to  marry  her,"  she  con- 
tinued in  an  explosive  whisper. 

If  the  widow's  face  turned  grey,  Emily  could 
not  see  it,  for  the  window  shade  was  down. 
Tabitha  stood  without  a  flinch  before  the  glass 
and  went  on  arranging  her  side  curls. 

"Well,  guess  he's  got  a  right  to  if  he  wants 
to — guess  nobody'll  object."  Then  she  turned 
boldly  and  faced  Emily.  "Is  my  collar  on 
straight,  Em'ly?  Seems  to  me  it's  jest  a  leetle 
to  one  side."  Emily  assured  her  it  was  on 
straight  then  they  walked  down  stairs  to  the 
sitting-room.  Tabitha's  knees  threatened  to 
give  way  as  she  walked  down  the  steps,  but 
she  bore  herself  bravely. 

It  was  half  past  two  before  the  guests  had 
all  arrived,  and  the  cutting,  basting,  and  sewing 
were  in  full  swing. 

"Why,  I  never  heard  o'  such  a  thing  in  all 
my  life !"  ejaculated  Eliza  Pepper  who  sat  close 
to  the  window.  Miranda  declared  afterwards 
that  she  was  looking  straight  at  Eliza  when  she 
spoke,  and  that  she  could  see  the  lilac  bush  out- 
side right  through  her  nose,  it  was  that  thin. 

"Nor  I,"  said  Mattie  Burnham  who  lived  and 
kept  the  millinery  store  in  the  rooms  over  the 
postoffice. 


THE     WIDOW     PERKINS  305 

"Why,  what  is  it,  Miss  Rice,  an'  how  is  it 
managed?"  asked  Mrs.  Blake,  who  stood  in  the 
middle  of  the  room  with  her  hands  on  her  hips. 

Miss  Rice  was  a  spinster  from  Boston  who 
was  visiting  the  Crabapples.  When  Miss  Rice 
laughed,  her  face  looked  exactly  as  if  she  were 
going  to  cry. 

"Why,  if  any  one  wants  to  get  married  he 
goes  to  the  office — they  have  a  regular  office 
you  see,"  said  Miss  Rice,  looking  over  her 
spectacles,  "and  makes  a  deposit,  I  don't  know 
how  much,  and  they  arrange  a  meeting  with 
some  woman  they  have  on  the  list  (if  it's  a  man 
that  applies)  and  if  they  like  one  another  when 
they  meet,  they  get  married;  if  they  don't  like 
one  another,  why,  they  try  some  one  else,  an' — 
is  this  sleeve  all  ready  to  sew  up,  Mrs. 
Blodgett?" 

"Yes,  it  is  all  ready." 

"An'  so  on  till  they  find  one  that  does  suit." 

"Why,  laws  a  me !  An'  did  you  say  they 
was  a  comin'  here,  Miss  Rice?"  asked  Susan 
Grey,  a  little  old  maid  of  sixty,  who  wore  her 
iron  grey  hair  in  stiflf  little  curls  that  just  es- 
caped her  shoulders.  They  floated  over  her 
yellow  cheeks  as  she  bent  over  her  sewing.  Her 
head  was  never  quite  still;  its  shaking  was  the 
result  of  a  nervous  disease. 

T 


306  THE     WIDOW     PERKINS 

"No,  I  didn't  say  they  were  comin'  here,  Miss 
Grey,  I  said  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  they  came 
here  soliciting,  because  there  are  so  many  un- 
married women  in  Pepperton." 

"I  guess  there  air  more  now  than  there  will 
be  after  a  while,"  said  Mrs.  Cole,  the  butcher's 
wife,  looking  significantly  at  Mrs.  Blodgett.  All 
Mrs.  Cole  had  to  keep  her  upper  lip  from  falling 
in  when  she  smiled,  was  her  eye  teeth. 

"O  dear !  Mis'  Perkins,  you've  cut  yer  finger, 
hain't  ye?"  Tabitha  was  cutting  out  some 
aprons  for  the  children. 

"Not  much,  jest  a  little,"  said  Tabitha  wind- 
ing a  rag  round  her  finger. 

"Why,  you  look  dretful  pale,  Tabitha,"  said 
Miss  Pepper. 

"Why  yes,  you're  as  white  as  chalk,"  said 
Miss  Grey.     "You  better  lay  down  a  spell," 

"O  no,  ladies,  there  ain't  no  'casion  to  lay 
down,  I  feel  perfec'ly  well,"  and  Tabitha  re- 
sumed her  place  at  the  cutting  table. 

"Well,"  said  Miss  Tucker,  biting  off  a  long 
basting  thread,  "I  guess  them  matrimonial 
agents  wouldn't  git  much  to  do  if  they  did  come 
here."  She  spoke  guardedly,  as  if  not  quite 
decided,  glancing  about  the  room  to  see  if  her 
words  met  with  approval. 

"No  indeed!  no  indeed!"  and  "I  should  say 


THE     WIDOW     PERKINS  307 

not,"  came  from  different  quarters  of  the  room, 
and  there  was  a  flashing  of  mature  glances  sug- 
gestive of  a  sword  combat. 

"What  did  you  say  they  called  it,  Miss  Rice  ?" 
asked  Mrs.  Blodgett  in  her  quiet  way. 

"A  Matrimonial  Bureau." 

"Well,  I  never!"  said  Mrs.  Elder  Crane  as 
she  was  called.  She  was  the  Baptist  minister's 
wife  and  a  very  pretty  woman  with  a  mouth  that 
made  one  think  of  prunes.  It  was  the  only 
observation  she  made  until  they  were  seated  at 
the  supper  table,  when  she  asked  Miss  Rice  if 
she  would  be  kind  enough  to  pass  the  peaches. 
The  word  peaches  left  a  pretty  expression  on 
her  lips. 

"Mis'  Blake,  I'm  ready  to  use  the  machine 
now,  an'  there  ain't  any  band  on  it ;  ain't  ye  got 
no  band  ?"  and  Tabitha  sat  up  straight,  waiting. 

"Why  bless  me !"  said  Mrs.  Blake  feeling  for 
the  band.  "Why,  of  course  I've  got  a  band, 
'twas  there  this  morning — O  dear,  them  boys !" 
She  darted  out  of  doors,  returning  in  a  few 
minutes  with  the  band  in  her  hand.  She  was 
warm  and  panting. 

"Why,  how  tuckered  out  you  do  look,  Mis' 
Blake,  have  ye  been  runnin'  "  and,  "Where  did 
you  find  it?"  asked  two  or  three  in  a  breath. 

"Why,  Johnny  had  it  on  the  dog  fer  a  har- 


308  THE     WIDOW     PERKINS 

ness,  an'  I  had  to  run  a'most  to  the  schoolhouse 
b'fore  I  could  ketch  him."  Mrs.  Blake  sank 
down  into  the  nearest  chair  and  fanned  herself 
with  her  apron. 

"Why,  for  massy  sakes,  Miss  Tolbert,  you've 
got  this  wedth  in  upside  down — no  ye  ain't — yes 
ye  have,  it's  upside  down,  sure's  the  world."  It 
was  Mrs.  Farley  who  spoke.  She  had  a  weak 
high  pitched  voice  and  walked  with  crutches; 
they  stood  up  in  a  corner  of  the  room. 

Prudence  would  have  blushed  if  she  could ; 
she  felt  like  it,  but  it  was  impossible;  she  had 
one  of  those  unchangeable  bilious  complexions. 
Everybody  was  surprised,  for  Prudence  had 
never  before  been  known  to  make  a  mistake  in 
sewing,  and  she  had  no  patience  with  the  mis- 
takes of  others. 

"Why,  so  I  have;  I'll  fix  it,"  and  she  did  in 
the  shortest  time  possible. 

After  the  cutting  and  basting  were  well 
under  way,  conversation,  until  supper  was 
ready,  was  mostly  drowned  in  the  almost  steady 
hum  of  the  sewing  machine. 

It  was  nearly  dark  when  Tabitha  and  Miranda 
reached  their  own  gate.  They  were  looking 
on  the  ground  as  if  they  had  lost  something. 

"I  never  in  my  life  see  any  one  as  careless 


THE     WIDOW     PERKINS  309 

as  you  be,  Merandy.  Now  you  go  over  to  Mis' 
Blake's  the  first  thing  in  the  morning,  jest  as 
soon  as  it's  light  enough  to  see,  an'  hunt  -fer 
that  hemmer  an'  feller.  They  must  'a'  slipped 
out  o'  paper  on  the  way  home,  if  you're  sure  you 
put  'em  in;  be  you  sure,  Merandy?" 

"Yes  'm,  I'm  sure.  Aunt  Tabby,"  said  the 
girl  with  a  doleful  face  and  tearful  eyes,  con- 
tinuing to  search  the  ground  about  her  feet. 

"We  might  as  well  go  in,  I  s'pose;  it's  too 
dark  to  find  anything  now.  I  wish  you'd  make 
a  cup  o'  tea,  Merandy,  jest  as  soon's  you  git 
yer  dress  changed,  I  declare  I  couldn't  drink 
that  tea  o'  Mis'  Blake's.  Did  you  notice  how 
dirty  her  teapot  cover  was?  You  didn't!  well, 
I  don't  see  how  you  could  help  it.  Prudence 
noticed  it  an'  she  didn't  drink  a  drop  o'  her  tea, 
nuther.  What  was  you  and  Malviny  Farley 
talkin'  about  when  you  set  over  on  the  lounge 
together  behind  me?" 

"O,  I  dunno — How'd  you  like  that  cur- 
rant—" 

"Why  don't  ye  tell  me  what  ye  was  talkin' 
about  ?  You  used  my  name  an' — an'  Mis'  Blod- 
gett's — I  heard  part  of  it — you  might  as  well 
tell  me." 

"Why — why — Malviny  said  Jonathan  Allen 


310  THE     WIDOW     PERKINS 

was  goin'  to  marry  Mis'  Blodgett,  but  her 
mother  thought  you'd  make  him  a  good  deal 
better  wife.  I  ast  how  she  knew  he  was  goin' 
to  marry  her,  an'  she  said  'twas  all  over  town. 
But  I  don't  b'lieve  it  an'  I  told  her  so." 

Tabitha  was  examining  one  of  her  thin  silver 
teaspoons. 

"Well,  I  should  say  he's  got  a  right  to  marry 
whoever  he  wants  to — it  ain't  likely  any  man's 
goin'  to  ask  a  woman  to  marry  him  that  won't 
speak  to  him." 

"I  wish  you  hed  a  spoke  to  him  when  he 
bowed  to  you  so  perlite  at  the  picnic,"  said  the 
girl  deprecatingly. 

"Why,  Merandy  Jenkins!  ain't  you  ashamed 
o'  yourself?  I  see  myself  speakin'  to  a  man 
that's  put  me  down  b'fore  the  hull  town  as  a 
hypocrite."  Miranda  rose  suddenly  and  Tabi- 
tha thought  the  yellow  in  her  eyes  looked  like 
sparks  of  fire.     She  was  pale  and  trembling. 

"Mebbe  he  didn't,  you  ain't  sure  he  did;  I 
don't  b'lieve  he  did,  nuther, — he  ain't  that  kind 
of  a  man;  and  even  if  he  did,  he  wa'n't  to 
blame;  anybody  'd  think  the  same  that  didn't 
know  jest  how  it  was.  You  would  yourself. 
You'd  ort  to  explain  to  him,  that's  what  you'd 
ort  to  do ;  you  ain't  actin'  like  a  Christian,  Aunt 
Tabby,  that's  what  you  ain't." 


THE     WIDOW     PERKINS  311 

Tabitha  was  amazed  at  the  reproof,  but  more 
amazed  that  it  came  from  her  demure  Httle 
niece  who  had  never  before  dared  to  hint  that 
her  aunt  was  not  impeccable.  To  the  girl's  sur- 
prise, Tabitha  made  no  reply  to  this  sudden  and 
unusual  outburst,  nor  did  she  ever  refer  to  it 
afterwards. 

The  following  morning  Miranda  made  a 
thorough  but  unsuccessful  search  for  the  miss- 
ing hemmer  and  feller. 

It  was  the  Monday  morning  after  the  sewing 
bee.  Miranda  had  finished  her  washing  and 
was  just  putting  away  the  tubs  after  scrubbing 
the  kitchen  floor.  Tabitha  sat  by  the  window 
in  the  sitting-room  making  the  last  buttonhole 
in  her  nightgown  when  there  came  a  com- 
manding rap  on  the  door.  She  rose  and  opened 
it ;  a  strange  young  man  stood  on  the  door-step. 

"Good  morning,  madam,"  said  he,  lifting  his 
hat,  "is  this  Mrs.  Perkins?" 

Tabitha  saw  at  a  glance  that  he  was  not  a 
Pepperton  man. 

"Good  mornin',"  said  she,  standing  as  stiff 
as  a  ramrod  with  the  door  only  half  open,  "yes, 
I'm  Mis'  Perkins." 

"Well,"  said  the  man,  wiping  his  damp  fore- 
head, "I  understood,  Mrs.  Perkins,  that  you  had 


312  THE     WIDOW     PERKINS 

the  misfortune  to  lose  your  feller  and — I 
thought — mebbe — you  might — "  Tabitha  had 
turned  white. 

"If  you're  one  o'  them  matrimonial  agents, 
sir,"  said  she,  interrupting  him,  "you  needn't 
come  around  here.  I  ain't  lost  no  feller  yet  't 
I  know  of — hain't  had  none  to  lose  fer  twenty 
year,  an'  I  don't  want  none,  nuther,"  and  she 
slammed  the  door  in  his  face. 

The  young  man  looked  puzzled  for  a  moment, 
then  laughed  good  naturedly,  walked  around 
to  the  kitchen  door  and  rapped  softly.  Miranda 
opened  the  door.  She  had  just  cut  her  finger 
and  was  trying  with  one  hand  to  wind  a  rag 
round  it ;  blood  was  coursing  down  her  wrist. 

"Miss,  would  you  mind  givin'  me  a  drink  o' — 
why,  good  gracious !  how  you've  cut  yer  finger, 
hain't  ye  ?  Let  me  help  ye.  You  can't  half  do  it 
up  wi'  one  hand.  Gimme  the  rag,"  and  before 
Miranda  had  time  to  refuse  or  accept  the 
proffered  service,  this  young  man,  upon  whom 
she  had  never  set  eyes  before,  was  dexterously 
winding  up  her  finger  and  giving  advice  about 
the  care  of  it,  as  if  he  had  known  her  all  her  Hfe. 

"You'll  have  to  be  careful  an'  not  take  cold 
in  it.  Miss,  or  the  very  devil'll  be  to  pay." 

Miranda  jumped  a  little  when  he  said  "devil." 
'    '^Did  I  hurt  ye?" 


THE     WIDOW     PERKINS  313 

"No,  are  ye  done?"  said  she  with  a  sigh. 
There  was  a  note  of  regret  in  her  voice. 

"Yes,  I  guess  it'll  do  now,"  They  looked  into 
one  anothers'  eyes  for  a  moment  with  the  inno- 
cent gaze  of  two  stranger  babies ;  then  he  took 
her  hand  again,  examining  his  work,  as  if  in 
the  hope  of  finding  something  amiss. 

"It— it  don't  fell  too  tight,  does  it.  Miss?" 

"N — no,  I  guess  not ;"  then  they  both  blushed 
and  he  let  go  her  hand.  Miranda  could  not 
remember  that  a  young  man  had  ever  before 
touched  her  hand  except  in  a  handshake.  She 
was  thinking  of  it  as  she  stood  before  him  look- 
ing down  at  her  wet  apron. 

"You  ain't  used  to  having  folks  kind  to  ye,  air 
ye,  Miss?"  said  he,  as  he  sat  down  on  a  chair 
near  the  door  and  laid  his  hat  on  the  floor 
beside  him.  He  was  about  twenty-five,  tall  and 
slender,  with  a  smooth  face  and  keen  dark  eyes. 
Miranda's  face  brightened  up  as  if  she  were 
going  to  smile. 

"O,  I  dunno,  I  guess  so.     Be  you  dry?" 

"Yes— I  b'lieve  I  am." 

She  filled  a  glass  from  the  water  pail  and 
brought  it  to  him. 

"Is  that  yer  mother  in  there.  Miss?"  he  asked 
handing  her  the  empty  glass. 

"No,  it's  m'  a'nt." 


314  THE     WIDOW     PERKINS 

"Is  she  crazy?" 

"I  dunno,  guess  not,  why?" 

"Why,  she  flew  at  me  like  a  mad  cat  'cause  I 
wanted  to  sell  her  a  new  feller — I  heard  she'd 
lost  the  one  we  sold  her  with  the  machine,  Mis' 
Blake  told  me." 

"Did  you  sell  her  the  machine?" 

"Father  did.  We're  in  business  together,  my 
name  is  Pelton — Jonas  Pelton." 

"O,  I  guess  I  know  what  made  her  mad," 
said  the  girl  after  a  moment's  reflection,  during 
which  the  young  man's  eyes  never  left  her  face. 
"She  must  a  thought  you  wanted  her  to  marry." 

"Marry!  Thunderation !"  Miranda  gave  a 
little  start  and  opened  her  eyes  wide. 

"D — don't  swear,  Mr.  Jonas — a — Mr.  Pelton. 
She — she  must  'a'  thought  you  was  one  o'  them 
matrimonial  agents  from  Boston." 

"One  o'  them  what  from  Boston?" 

"Matrimonial  agents,  but  don't  speak  so 
loud,  she  might  hear  ye." 

"Giminee  crickets.  I  don't  want  to  marry 
her,  no  sir-ee.  I'd  ruther  marry  you,  Miss — 
Miss — say  now,  Miss,  tell  a  feller  what  yer  name 
is,  won't  ye?" 

"Miranda  Katherine  Jenkins,"  said  the  girl 
with  a  serious  face,  making  him  a  low  courtesy. 

"How  old  be  ye?" 


THE     WIDOW     PERKINS  315 

"Mos'  twenty-four." 

"You're  jest  about  a  year  younger  'n  me 
then,"  said  Jonas,  reflectively  stroking  his  bare 
chin. 

"You've  got  the  finest  eyes  I  ever  see, 
Merandy;  but  you're  lame,  ain't  ye?  What's 
the  matter  with  yer  leg?" 

"I  dunno — nothin',  I  guess — little  too  short, 
that's  all." 

"Why  don't  ye  have  yer  shoe  fixed  so  ye 
won't  limp?" 

"Why,  I  couldn't,  could  I?" 

"Course  ye  could,  give  it  to  me,  I'll  git  it 
fixed  fer  ye.     How  much  too  short  is  yer  leg?" 

"  'Bout  an  inch,  I  guess." 

"Give  me  yer  shoe."  Miranda  liked  his 
kindly  authoritative  tone ;  it  gave  her  a  feeling 
of  protection.  She  went  into  the  bedroom  and 
brought  out  her  left  shoe.  Jones  slipped  it  into 
his  coat  pocket. 

"I'll  bring  it  back  tomorrow  night."  Then 
he  walked  slowly  over  to  the  window  and  back 
to  the  girl.  "Say,  Merandy,  s'pose  I  was  one  o' 
them  matrimonial  agents  and  sh'd  ask  you  now 
— you  wouldn't  think  o'  marryin'  a  fellow  like 
me,  would  ye?  I  ain't  good  lookin'  'nough?" 
Miranda  was  thinking  at  that  very  moment  that 
he  was  the  handsomest  man  she  had  ever  seen. 


316  THE     WIDOW     PERKINS 

"I  dunno,"  she  replied  with  a  confused  blush, 
turning  her  face  a  little  away.  "I  won't  tell  till 
ye  ask  me.  I  think  you're  awful  good  lookin' 
though,  Jonas,"  then  she  looked  down  at  the  toe 
of  her  felt  slipper. 

"Do  ye  now,  reely,  Merandy?"  Jonas  slipped 
his  hands  into  his  trousers  pockets,  "Well  I  de- 
clare, if  that  ain't  queer !  Say  now,  Mirandy,  I 
think  you're  the  nicest  girl  I  ever  see.  You 
ain't  all  tongue  like  most  of  'em,"  and  he  put 
his  arm  about  Miranda's  waist.  She  drew  back, 
coloring  deeply.  "When  I  come  tomorrow 
night,  I'm  goin'  to  ask  ye  something,  an'  I 
want  you  to  think  about  it  all  day  so  you  can 
say  yes  or  no  on  the  spot  an'  no  foolin'.  I'm 
honest  an'  I've  got  a  little  money  laid  by.  Will 
ye  think  't  over?" 

"Yes—" 

"May  I  kiss  ye,  Merandy?"  Jonas  bent  over 
her  till  she  felt  his  warm  breath  on  her  forehead. 

"No,"  said  the  girl,  springing  quickly  from 
him,  her  face  and  neck  crimson,  "Wait — till — 
till  after  tomorrow  night." 

"Very  well,  Merandy,  I  guess  you're  right 
about  it.  Good-by,  I  mus'  be  goin'."  As  Jonas 
stepped  out  at  the  door,  Tabitha's  big  yellow 
cat  crowded  past  him  into  the  kitchen. 

"Do  ye  want  yer  breakfast,    Dickey,   poor 


THE     WIDOW     PERKINS  317 

Dickey."  Miranda  picked  the  cat  up  in  her 
arms  and  gave  him  a  hard  hug  laying  her  hot 
cheek  on  his  soft  fur.  Just  then  Tabitha  opened 
the  door. 

"Why,  who  be  you  talkin'  to,  Merandy?"  she 
asked,  peering  about  the  kitchen,  "I  was  sure 
I  heard  ye  talkin'  to  some  one." 

"Why — I  was  jes'  speakin'  to  the  cat,  Aunt 
Tabby." 

Miranda  kept  her  promise  faithfully  and 
"thought  't  over"  all  night  as  well  as  all  day. 
Tabitha,  as  was  her  custom,  went  on  the  Tues- 
day evening  following  to  the  Baptist  prayer- 
meeting.  Just  after  she  had  gone,  Jonas  ap- 
peared at  the  kitchen  door.  Miranda  had 
slipped  on  her  prettiest  blue  gingham  with 
ruffles  of  starched  lace  in  the  neck  and  sleeves. 

"Put  't  on,  Merandy,  put  't  on,"  said  Jonas, 
handing  her  the  shoe.  She  went  into  the  bed- 
room, put  on  her  shoe,  and  came  out  walking 
awkwardly,  but  without  the  least  limp.  The 
sole  had  been  thickened. 

"There,  I  told  ye,  you're  all  right  now,  Me- 
randy, an'  the  prettiest  girl  in  town."  Me- 
randa  smiled  till  she  showed  her  white  teeth. 

"My,  oh  my!  what  pretty  teeth  you've  got, 
Merandy.  You  must  laugh  oftener  an'  show 
'em."     Then   he   sat   silent,   his   face   growing 


318  THE     WIDOW     PERKINS 

serious.  At  last  he  said,  as  he  rolled  his  soft 
hat  rim. 

"Have  ye  been  a  thinkin'  't  over,  Merandy?" 
The  girl  turned  her  face  away ;  he  could  see  the 
little  red  rings  of  hair  clinging  to  the  back  of 
her  white  neck. 

"Yes,  Jonas,  I've  been  a-thinkin'  't  over." 

He  took  the  hand  with  the  cut  finger  and  held 
it  between  both  his  own. 

"If  I  sh'd  ask — ye  to  marry  me,  Merandy — 
hang  it,  that  ain't  fair !  I  do  ask  ye,  is  it  yes  er 
no,  an'  no  foolin'.  I'll  take  good  care  o'  ye, 
little  one,  ye  needn't  be  afraid  if  ye  Hke  me." 

"I  dunno,  Jonas."  She  was  so  in  the  habit 
of  saying  she  didn't  know.  Jonas  dropped  her 
hand  and  reached  for  his  hat.  She  grasped  him 
by  the  sleeve. 

"Don't  go,  Jonas,  please  don't  go.  I'd  like 
to  marry  ye,  an'  mebbe  I  will,  I  like  ye  dretful 
well" — she  couldn't  say  love — "I  like  ye  the  best 
in  the  world  but  I  couldn't  leave  Aunt  Tabby 
here  all  'lone  when  she's  so  heart-broke." 
Miranda's  eyes  were  full  of  tears.  "She  don't 
show  it  much,  but  I  know  she  is.  She  took  me. 
Jonas,  when  I  was  little,  an'  give  me  a  home,  or 
I'd  'a'  gone  to  the  poorhouse." 

"Do  you  care  anything  about  that  cross  old 
cat,  Merandy?  Tabby's  a  good  name  for  her. 
I'll  be  darned  if  it  ain't." 


THE     WIDOW     PERKINS  319 

"She  ain't  a  cross  ole  cat,"  said  Miranda 
bristling,  "she's  good,  awful  good,  but  she's 
been  bad  treated;  folks  has  lied  about  her." 
And  then  she  went  on  and  told  Jonas  all  about 
her  aunt's  trouble  in  the  church,  and  about 
Jonathan  Allen. 

"She's  awful  unhappy  now  'cause  he's  goin' 
to  marry  that  Blodgett  woman." 

Jonas  smiled.     "He  is,  is  he?" 

"Yes,  and  she's  never  told  the  hull  truth 
about  that  knittin',  and  she'd  never  let  me  tell 
it;  now  I  jest  feel  as  if  I'd  ort  to.  It  ain't  right." 

"Course  it  ain't  right,"  reiterated  Jonas  with 
an  angry  jerk  of  his  head,  "it's  what  I  call 
blamed  mean,  's  what  I  call  it.  Do  you  think 
she'd  marry  Jonathan  now  if  he  asked  her?" 

"Why,  I  know  she  would,  but  he  won't  ask 
'er;  he  thinks  she  knits  on  Sundays,  but  she 
don't,  and  she  never  did  but  jest  them  two  times 
I  tole  you  'bout." 

"Lemme  see,"  said  Jones  stroking  his  bare 
upper  lip,  "how'd  you  say  it  was  ?  Tell  it  agin, 
Merandy,  I  want  to  git  it  right  in  my  mind." 

"Why,  old  Grandfather  Buckley — poor  ole 
man,  I  can  see  him  yet,  I  was  eight  year  old 
then — come  here  one  Sunday  night  a'most 
froze ;  one  of  his  fingers  was  froze.  Aunt  Tabby 
said,  and  she  made  him  some  hot  tea  'n'  toast 


320  THE     WIDOW     PERKINS 

an'  boiled  him  an  egg;  then  she  went  and  cut 
out  the  ankles  of  a  pair  o'  my  stockin's  an'  set  up 
most  all  night  a-knittin'  thumbs  an'  hands  onto 
'em.  Then  she  put  new  lining  in  the  sleeves  of 
Uncle  Dick's  overcoat  an'  give  it  to  him.  It 
took  her  most  all  night.  She  didn't  ondress  at 
all,  she  just  laid  down  on  the  lounge  a  while 
before  she  got  breakfast." 

"Whatwashedoin'?" 

"Why,  she  put  him  to  bed  with  some  hot 
bricks  round  him.  Th'  ole  man  cried,  he  was 
that  glad.  When  he  went  away  after  breakfas' 
she  told  him  not  to  say  anything  'bout  it ;  that's 
the  way  she  always  does.  That  was  the  night 
Jonathan  an'  the  preacher  went  by  an'  seen 
her." 

"An'  they  all  think  she's  a  hypocrite,  do  they? 
an'  Jonathan  along  wi'  the  rest,  eh  ?" 

"Yes." 

"Well,  I  call  that  a  gol  darn'd  shame !"  Jonas 
flushed  with  anger  at  the  injustice.  "I  guess  we 
can  fix  it  though,  Merandy,  if  you'll  be  real 
smart  an'  hold  yer  tongue." 

"O  Jonas,  how?"  Miranda  sprang  to  her 
feet  clapping  her  hands.  Jonas  sprang  up  too 
and  caught  her  in  his  arms.  She  struggled  a 
little  to  free  herself,  then  stood  still  looking 
down  at  the  floor. 

"Let  me  go,  Jonas,  please  let  me  go." 


THE     WIDOW     PERKINS  321 

"Well,  will  ye  marry  if— if— " 

"If  we  can  fix  it  all  right  with  Aunt  Tabby 
an'  Jonathan?" 

"Yes,  o'  course." 

"Yes,  I  will,  Jonas,"  and  she  raised  her  head 
and  looked  him  full  in  the  face.  Jonas  put  his 
finger  under  her  chin  and  gave  her  a  quick  kiss 
square  on  the  lips. 

"O  Jonas !"  said  she  freeing  herself,  a 
troubled  look  coming  into  her  eyes.  "What  if 
you  couldn't  fix  it  after  all,  an' — you've  kissed 
me.     Aunt  Tabby  always  said — " 

"Oh,  bother  Aunt  Tabby,  we  can  fix  it,  course 
we  can  fix  it.  If  she  ain't  a  married  Tabby  inside 
of  a  year,  I'll  eat  the  greaser." 

"What,  what  greaser,  Jonas?" 

"Why,  the  pancake  greaser,  you  little 
simpleton." 

Miranda  made  up  a  little  face,  "Oh! — I 
wouldn't,  Jonas,  if  I  was  you;  it  wouldn't  be 
good,"  Jonas  looked  at  her  a  moment 
quizzically,  then  burst  into  a  roar  of  laughter. 

"You  don't  know  much,  do  ye,  Merandy? 
But  you  suit  me  all  the  better ;  you  ain't  full  o' 
nonsense  like  the  Glenwood  girls ;  you  say  jest 
what  you  mean,  an'  expect  other  folks  to  do 
the  same,  don't  ye?  Have  ye  never  been  to 
school,  Merandy?" 


322  THE     WIDOW     PERKINS 

"No,  not  a  day." 

"Can't  ye  read  and  write?" 

"Course  I  can ;  Aunt  Tabby  learnt  me.  I  can 
read  an'  write  an'  cipher,  an'  I  know  history  all 
through,  I  can  answer  every  question  in  the 
book,"  said  the  girl,  straightening  up.  "Ask  me 
some." 

Jonas  was  awe-stricken  at  the  extent  of 
Miranda's  learning.  He  gazed  at  her  in  silent 
admiration,  but  was  unable  to  recall  any  ques- 
tions in  history  as  she  sat  before  him  prim  and 
straight,  and  with  a  look  on  her  face  of  supreme 
self-confidence  awaiting  examination.  "Did  you 
ever  study  grammar,  Merandy?" 

"Naw!"  replied  the  girl  disdainfully,  "did 
you?" 

"No,  it  ain't  much  good,  ye  can't  use  it." 

"No,  ye  can't  use  it.  Is  it  anything  like — 
like  'rithmetic,  Jonas  ?" 

"No,  not  a  bit ;  it's  just  as  different  as  can  be." 
Jonas  gazed  at  the  girl  reflectively. 

"That  'counts  for  it  then,  if  you've  never  been 
among  other  girls." 

"'Counts  fer  what?" 

"Why,  that  you  b'lieve  I  mean  everything  I 
say." 

"Don't  ye,  Jonas?"  Miranda's  lips  turned 
white. 

"Why,  not  everything,  I  joke  sometimes;  I 


THE     WIDOW     PERKINS  323 

was  joking  just  now  'bout  the  greaser;  I 
wouldn't  eat  a  greaser,  you  couldn't  hire  me 
to."  Then  he  noticed  how  white  she  was,  and 
he  gathered  her  in  his  arms ;  her  head  fell  over 
on  his  shoulder. 

"Great  Caesar!  Merandy,  what's  the  matter? 
I  meant  what  I  said  about  marryin'  ye,  course  I 
did,  I  wouldn't  joke  about  such  a  thing  as  that." 
He  kissed  her  white  lips  tenderly  and  she  made 
no  objection. 

"I'm  glad,  Jonas,"  she  said,  smiling  faintly. 

"Now  set  down  here,  little  girl,  an'  I'll  tell 
ye  some  news.  That  Blodgett  woman  you 
spoke  about,  is  my  aunt — she's  my  father's 
sister.  I'm  living  at  her  house  now,  been  there 
mos'  three  weeks.  She's  an  awful  good  woman. 
I  know  Jonathan  Allen  a  little,  too,  I've  been 
down  to  see  him  about  getting  a  place  to  work 
in  his  mill — sewing  machine  business  don't  pay. 
No,  it  don't  pay;  folks  round  here'd  ruther  sew 
the  old  way.  I  think  I'll  git  a  place  in  the  mill 
about  the  first  of  the  month.  I  guess  we  can  fix 
it  so  it'll  be  all  right  between  yer  aunt  an'  Mr. 
Allen ;  I  feel  sure  we  can,  'cause  if  he's  the  man 
I  think  he  is,  and  understands  how  it  reely  was, 
why—" 

"O  Jonas,  do  you  mean  it?"  and  Miranda 
smiled  with  delight  showing  her  white  teeth. 


324  THE     WIDOW     PERKINS 

She  stopped  suddenly  and  pouted,  striking  him 
a  violent  blow  on  the  arm  with  her  handker- 
chief. 

"You  mustn't,  Jonas,  we  ain't  married  yet." 

"Can't  help  it,  Merandy,  I'll  do  it  every  time 
I  see  them  pretty  white  teeth,"  Miranda  smiled 
again,  she  couldn't  help  it,  Jonas  was  so  funny ; 
but  she  clapped  her  handkerchief  over  her 
mouth  so  he  couldn't  see  her  teeth.  Then  there 
was  a  little  scuffle. 

"I  won't  marry  ye,  Jonas,  if  ye  don't  behave 
better,"  said  the  girl,  with  a  smile  in  her  eye  and 
a  pout  on  her  lips. 

"O  yes,  ye  will,"  said  Jonas,  lifting  the  candle 
toward  the  clock.  "Good  gracious,  Merandy! 
I  mus'  go  this  minute,  it's  mos'  nine  o'clock." 

"Yes,  you  mus'  go,  Jonas,  Aunt  Tabby  '11  be 
here  in  ten  minutes." 

"Good  night,  dear;  now  hold  yer  tongue." 

"Yes,  I  will,  Jonas,"  and  she  gave  him  a  little 
push  toward  the  door. 

Rumors  about  Jonathan  and  the  Widow  Blod- 
gett  flew  about,  after  the  sewing  bee,  like 
feathers  in  the  wind.  Every  move  either  of 
them  made  was  construed,  by  well-meaning 
neighbors,  into  preparations  for  the  wedding. 
Whether  they  would  live  in  his  or  her  house 


THE     WIDOW     PERKINS  325 

after  marriage,  was  the  subject  of  much  dis- 
cussion. Some  thought  they  would  Hve  in  her 
house  because  it  was  nearer  the  mill,  others 
thought  they  would  be  more  likely  to  live  in  his 
house  because  it  was  larger;  still  others  poohed 
at  both  these  ideas,  feeling  sure  Jonathan  would 
build ;  some  one  had  seen  him  one  day  in 
conversation  with  old  Ezra  Wheeler,  who  owned 
half  interest  in  the  sawmill. 

Tabitha  remarked  at  one  time,  when  asked 
her  opinion  on  the  subject,  that  she  didn't  see 
as  it  made  any  difference  which  house  they 
lived  in. 

There  were  a  good  many  dead  roses  on  the 
bushes  that  almost  covered  Tabitha's  little  white 
gate,  and  she  had  gone  out  with  a  basket  and 
pair  of  old  shears  to  cut  them  oflf. 

"What  a  sight  o'  buds  there  air  on  these 
bushes !  Seems  to  me  they're  redder  'n  they  use' 
to  be.  too.     Don't  you  think  so,  Merandy?" 

"Oh,  I  dunno.  Aunt  Tabby,  mebbe  they  be." 

"An'  seems  to  me  I  never  see  sweet  pea  vines 
so  full  o'  blossoms,  Merandy,  did  you?" 

"I  dunno,  I  guess  not.  There's  more  pink 
ones  this  year  than  last,  ever  so  many  more." 

"Yes,  I  dunno  but  there  is,"  replied  Tabitha 


326  THE     WIDOW     PERKINS 

looking  over  toward  the  sweet  peas  that  had 
transformed  the  grey  garden  fence  into  a  wall 
of  flowers, 

It  was  Monday  afternoon.  The  day  before, 
the  Baptist  minister  had  preached  a  powerful 
sermon  on  Christian  charity  and  the  sin  of 
harboring  grievances. 

Tabitha  walked  home  thinking  seriously  of 
her  trouble  with  Jonathan.  She  had  always 
supposed  that  she  had  a  right  to  nurse  her 
grievance,  as  she  had  been  wrongly  accused, 
and  that  she  was  committing  a  sin  in  doing  so 
had  never  entered  her  mind. 

She  went  to  sleep  on  Sunday  night,  thinking 
it  over,  and  dreamed  that  she  and  her  old  lover 
had  become  reconciled  and  that  she  had 
promised  finally  to  assist  at  his  wedding,  and  to 
bake  the  bride's  cake.  She  told  Jonathan,  in 
her  dream,  all  about  what  started  the  stories  of 
her  working  on  Sunday;  how  she  had  mis- 
counted the  days,  and  when  two  or  three  of 
the  neighbors  went  by  to  meeting  one  Sun- 
day morning,  she  was  out  scrubbing  the  kitchen 
door-step ;  and  when  they  went  home  after  ser- 
vices, she  sat  at  the  window  knitting;  then  on 
Monday  morning,  she  had  dressed  up  and 
started  to  meeting,  and  not  until  she  passed  the 
schoolhouse  and  saw  through  the  open  windows 


THE     WIDOW     PERKINS  327 

the  children  in  their  seats,  did  she  awake  to  a 
knowledge  of  her  mistake.  She  soon  heard  that 
some  were  talking  about  it,  but  she  never 
offered  any  explanation  because  she  thought  the 
people  of  the  village  ought  to  have  enough  faith 
in  her,  as  long  as  she  had  lived  among  them,  to 
know  it  was  a  mistake. 

Her  explanation  had  been  perfectly  satis- 
factory to  Jonathan,  in  her  dream,  and  when 
she  woke  up,  they  were  the  best  of  friends. 

The  influence  of  the  dream  was  still  upon  her 
as  she  stood  cHpping  off  the  dead  roses. 

"Here,  Merandy,  take  these  in  the  house  an' 
burn  'em  up,"  The  girl  took  the  basket  half 
full  of  dead  roses  and  went  into  the  house. 

Tabitha  stepped  upon  a  large  stone  that  lay 
beside  the  gate,  close  to  the  fence,  and  looked 
over  toward  the  flour  mill.  She  could  see  about 
half  of  the  wheel,  and  the  sparkle  of  the  water 
in  the  sunshine  as  it  fell  from  the  slowly  turning 
paddles.  She  put  up  one  hand  to  shade  her 
eyes. 

She  wondered  if  Jonathan  was  at  the  mill. 
Her  dream  was  so  very  real ;  she  could  feel  his 
presence;  it  was  hard  to  believe  that  she  had 
not  had  a  long  talk  with  him.  She  wondered 
if  she  could  see  his  office  window  if  she  stepped 
upon  the  second  board  of  the  fence.  She  looked 


328  THE     WIDOW     PERKINS 

back  toward  the  house  to  see  if  Miranda  had 
gone  in,  then  she  stepped  up. 

She  could  see  more  than  half  of  the  window. 
She  thought  at  first  that  she  could  see  a  face 
near  the  window.  She  looked  with  all  her 
might,  but  it  was  too  far  away ;  she  could  not  be 
sure. 

Some  one  with  a  grey  team  drove  up  to  the 
mill  door  and  began  unloading  some  bags. 

"I  guess  't  mus'  be  wheat,"  thought  Tabitha, 
"that  man  lifts  them  bags  as  if  they  was  pretty 
heavy;  yes,  I  guess  it's  wheat,  it  mus'  be. 
Jonathan  ought  to  have  a  good  home,  yes  he 
ought  to  hev — "  She  turned  her  head  suddenly 
toward  the  gate  as  if  she  heard  something,  then 
she  got  down  from  the  fence  with  the  quickest 
move  she  had  made  in  years,  her  face  turning 
pale. 

"Why,  for  massy  sakes !"  said  Tabitha,  shrink- 
ing behind  a  rose  bush,  "there  comes  a  man  an' 
I  b'lieve  it's  Jonathan.     What  shall  I  do  ?" 

She  had  no  time  to  do  anything  before  he 
opened  the  gate  and  stepped  in.  The  thought 
that  he  must  have  seen  her  on  the  fence  gazing 
over  towards  his  mill,  brought  color  to  her 
cheeks.  She  noticed,  notwithstanding  her 
agitation,  as  he  turned  to  latch  the  gate,  that 
his  hair  was  more  white  than  grey,  and  that 


THE     WIDOW     PERKINS  329 

there  was  a  light  sifting  of  flour  over  the 
shoulders  of  his  black  coat.  She  even  took  time 
to  wonder  how  she  could  notice  such  things  at 
such  a  moment  and  if  she  were  awake  or  dream- 
ing. She  knew  she  was  not  dreaming  when  he 
said,  "Good  morning,  Sister  Perkins,"  for  he 
had  always  called  her  by  her  Christian  name, 
and  she  was  not  pleased  with  the  change. 

"Good  mornin',  Jonathan,"  she  responded 
with  a  defiant  emphasis  on  the  name,  "step  right 
this  way  if  ye  please  an'  take  a  seat;  there's 
some  chairs  under  that  low  apple  tree." 

Quivering  in  every  limb  she  led  the  way.  Her 
tall  figure  was  proudly  erect,  though  she  was 
conscious  of  a  weakening  faith  in  her  own  power 
of  self  control,  for  her  trembling  hands  and  the 
nervous  twitching  of  her  lips  defied  her. 

"Jes'  take  that  arm  chair,  Jonathan,  I'll  set 
right  here  on  the  settee."  She  was  less  than 
half  a  head  taller  than  Jonathan,  but  the  differ- 
ence today  was  more  pronounced ;  the  scorn  she 
felt  for  her  own  growing  weakness  added  to  her 
height. 

"Pretty  warm  day,  ain't  it?"  said  Tabitha, 
folding  her  arms  to  hide  her  trembling  hands. 
Jonathan  admitted  that  it  was  warm,  as  he  wiped 
his  damp  forehead. 

"Dretful  dusty,  too,"  she  remarked,  looking 


330  THE     WIDOW     PERKINS 

down  at  his  grey  boots.  He  agreed,  also,  that 
it  was  very  dusty,  then  he  fell  to  examining  the 
lining  of  his  hat,  as  if  searching  for  an  escaped 
idea. 

In  order  to  convince  her  visitor  of  her  perfect 
coolness,  in  case  he  had  any  doubt  about  it, 
Tabitha  coughed. 

All  doubt  was  instantly  removed.  In  the 
sympathy  he  felt  for  her  embarrassment,  Jona- 
than became  master  of  his  own,  and  he  looked 
her  full  in  the  face. 

"Tabithy,"  he  began,  "I've  felt  for  a  good 
while  that  we  ain't  livin'  right.  I  dunno  how 
you  feel  about  it,  but  that's  the  way  I  feel.  I've 
been  thinkin'  on  it  most  all  the  while  for  a  week 
past  (Tabitha  wondered  as  the  old  bitter  feeUng 
began  to  well  up  in  her  heart,  if  he  had  come 
again  after  twenty  years  on  the  same  errand 
as  before,  to  try  to  induce  her  to  confess),  an' 
the  more  I  think  on  it,"  he  continued,  "the  more 
I  think  you  ain't  been  treated  right,  Tabithy." 

He  was  looking  straight  into  her  eyes  now, 
and  all  that  was  noble  in  him  shone  forth.  His 
words  were  measured  and  far  apart,  as  if  each 
one  cost  him  an  efifort,  and  Tabitha  saw  that 
his  eyes  were  misty  with  tears. 

"I've  come  here  today  t'ask  yer  forgiveness 


THE     WIDOW     PERKINS  331 

fer  not  trustin'  ye  instead  of  tryin'  to  git  ye  to 
confess  to  what  ye  wa'n't  guilty  of." 

She  gave  him  a  questioning  look. 

"Oh  I  know  what  I'm  talkin'  about,  Tabithy. 
I  know  you  was  doin'  God's  service  that  Sun- 
day night,  and  I  b'lieve  you  had  some  good 
reason  the  summer  b'fore  too.  I  didn't  treat 
ye  right  an'  I  ask  ye  to  forgive  me." 

Up  to  this,  she  had  not  spoken ;  she  had  made 
several  attempts  but  the  words  seemed  to  stick 
somewhere  in  her  throat. 

"  'Twas  all  my  fault,  I  can  see  it  now,"  he  con- 
tinued, after  waiting  a  moment  for  her  to  speak. 
His  self  accusation  loosened  her  tongue. 

"No,  it  wa'n't,  Jonathan;  I  didn't  do  right 
nuther ;  I  hadn't  ort  to  a  turned  ye  out  o'  doors 
— 'twa'n't  Christian  like,  an'  I've  been  a  thinkin' 
a  good  deal  about  it  lately,  too.  I'm  reel  glad 
ye  come  over.  'Tain't  right  to  live  this  way; 
I  know  it  ain't." 

"You  forgive  me  then,  Tabithy?" 

"Yes,  Jonathan,  an — I — want  you — to — to 
forgive  me."  Tears  were  coursing  down  her 
cheeks  and  the  hard  lines  in  her  face  had  melted 
away. 

"I  do,  Tabithy,  with  all  my  heart,"  and  they 
shook  hands.     Then  they  drifted  into  talking 


332  THE     WIDOW     PERKINS 

of  old  times,  and  finally  she  alluded,  in  a  delicate 
way,  to  his  approaching  marriage.  She  hoped 
he  would  be  happy  in  the  change  he  was  about 
to  make,  and  have  a  good  comfortable  home. 
She  spoke  quite  naturally,  for  she  had  fully 
made  up  her  mind  to  it,  and  also  that  she  herself 
would  die  as  she  was,  the  Widow  Perkins.  She 
was  nervously  opening  and  closing  her  spectacle 
case  as  she  spoke.  She  really  wished  him  well, 
and  she  looked  up  into  his  face  to  show  him  that 
she  meant  what  she  said,  and  to  her  surprise  he 
was  smiling  as  if  amused. 

"So  you've  heard  that  too,  have  ye,  Tabithy? 
I  guess  it's  gone  the  rounds,"  and  he  gave  way 
to  a  low,  scarce  audible  "Ha,  ha,  ha!" 

"You  didn't  b'lieve  it,  did  ye?"  and  he  looked 
up  at  her  from  under  his  heavy  iron  grey  brows 
with  a  twinkle  of  the  old  time  mischief  in  his 
eyes.  Strangers  were  never  sure  whether 
Jonathan  was  in  jest  or  earnest. 

"Why — why — ain't  it  so?"  she  gasped.  "Ain't 
you  an'  Mis'  Blodgett  goin'  to  git  married, 
Jonathan?"  She  was  trembling  violently  now, 
and  to  save  her  life  she  could  not  still  the  twitch- 
ing of  her  lips. 

Jonathan  seated  himself  beside  her  on  the 
settee  and  took  one  of  her  trembling  hands  as 
if  he  owned  it. 


THE     WIDOW     PERKINS  333 

"No,  Tabithy,  I'm  not  goin'  to  marry  Mrs. 
Blodgett  't  I  know  of.  I  don't  know  how  she 
feels  about  marryin'  me.  I  ain't  never  asked 
her.  She's  a  good  woman,  Mis'  Blodgett  is, 
but  I  don't  want  to  marry  her,  an'  I  don't  think 
S(he  wants  to  marry  me.  Look  a'  here,  Tabithy," 
and  with  the  characteristic  daring  of  his  youth, 
Jonathan  put  his  arm  around  her  waist,  "I  told 
you  years  ago,  didn't  I,  the  time  I  come  home 
and  found  you  engaged  to  Dick,  that  no  woman 
but  you'd  ever  be  my  wife,  an'  I  ain't  changed 
my  mind  yet  if  I  be  fifty-five  years  old.  I  want 
you  to  remember,  Tabithy,  that  if  Jonathan 
Allen  ever  goes  to  his  own  weddin',  Tabitha 
Perkins  '11  not  be  far  away." 

So  they  talked  on  and  on  till  the  sun  turned 
red  and  slid  down  below  the  horizon,  casting  a 
ruddy  glow  over  the  western  sky. 

The  following  week  Tabitha  received  visits 
from  the  Methodist  minister  and  all  the  leading 
members  of  the  church,  and  two  weeks  later  she 
once  more  became  a  member  of  the  church  of 
her  choice. 

Jonas  and  Miranda  "went  forward"  the  same 
evening  and  both  were  converted  before  leav- 
ing the  mourners'  bench. 

Tabitha  looked  happy  in  spite  of  her  effort  to 


334  THE     WIDOW     PERKINS 

look  as  usual ;  the  hard  lines  refused  to  be  rein- 
stated. She  feared  it  was  not  quite  right  to 
be  happy  in  this  vale  of  tears.  She  drew  a  deep 
sigh  now  and  then  from  a  sense  of  duty,  for  the 
benefit  of  suffering  humanity  as  a  whole,  but  the 
sad  look  accompanying  these  expressions  of 
sympathy,  found  no  resting  place  in  her  face. 

"Why,  she  looks  ten  years  younger,  Jonas," 
said  Miranda,  "I  never  see  the  Hke." 

Jonas  was  standing  in  the  middle  of  the 
kitchen  floor  with  his  hands  in  his  trousers 
pockets. 

"Well  I  do  declare,  if  that  don't  jes'  beat  all !" 

"What,  Jonas?" 

"Why,  a  woman  a-stickin'  to  a  man  all  them 
years.  Now — do — you  think,  Merandy  (and 
Jonas  gave  her  an  appealing  look),  that  you  like 
me  as  well  as — as  she  does  him?" 

Miranda  smiled  and  said,  "Oh,  I  dunno, 
Jonas." 

It  was  late  in  September,  but  the  weather  was 
still  warm.  It  had  rained  hard  nearly  all  night, 
and  the  green  grass  under  the  apple  trees  was 
almost  covered  with  brown  and  yellow  leaves. 
The  sun  shining  on  the  little  pools  of  water 
under  Tabitha's  sitting-room  window,  cast  danc- 
ing shadows  on  the  ceiling,  and  dazzled  her  eyes. 


THE     WIDOW     PERKINS  335 

"Dear  me,  how  bright  the  sun  is !  Seems  to 
me  I  never  see  such  a  pretty  mornin',  did  you, 
Merandy?" 

"No,  I  dunno's  I  ever  did.  Where  is  that 
robin,  Aunt  Tabby?  I  sh'd  think  he'd  be  tired 
out;  he's  been  a-singin'  all  the  mornin'." 

Miranda  stood  in  the  open  door  and  Tabitha 
sat  by  the  window,  sewing. 

"There  he  is  settin'  on  the  gate  post,"  said 
Tabitha.  She  stopped  sewing  and  gazed  lov- 
ingly at  the  bird. 

"O  yes,  I  see  him  now.  Seems  to  me  he  sings 
the  sweetest  of  any  robin  I  ever  heard." 

"Yes,  he — he's  got  a  sweet  voice,  wonderful 
sweet,"  and  Tabitha,  with  a  less  violent  motion, 
resumed  her  sewing. 

Miranda  looked  up  at  the  sky.  There  were  a 
few  fleecy  clouds  like  straying  sheep  scattered 
over  the  clear  blue.  A  drop  of  water  from  the 
roof  fell  on  her  parted  lips ;  she  drank  it  in  with 
a  smile  and  without  giving  utterance  to  the 
thought  that  brought  an  added  flush  to  her 
cheeks. 

"I  guess  the  rain's  all  over,  Aunt  Tabby." 

"Yes,  I  guess  'tis,"  and  Tabitha  reeled  oflF  a 
fresh  thread.  "Let  me  see,  what  was  I  a-sayin' 
a  minute  ago  ?  Oh  yes,  besides  savin'  expense, 
ye  see,  Merandy,  it'd  save  goin'  through  the 


336  THE     WIDOW     PERKINS 

mess  of  bakin'  twice,  an'  it  is  sech  mussy  work. 
Dear  me,  how  this  thread  knots!  I  never  see 
anything  like  it. 

"There !  no^y  this  makes  six  for  you,  Merandy, 
an'  I  guess  that  '11  do." 

It  was  nearly  supper  time.  There  was  a 
strong  odor  of  spices  about  the  house  of  Widow 
Perkins ;  a  little  of  it  had  crept  into  the  immacu- 
late parlor,  and  the  calm,  pictured  face  of  George 
Washington,  sitting  on  his  horse  over  the 
mantel,  looked  as  if  he  had  noticed  it,  and 
understood. 

"How  nice  they  do  look,  Aunt  Tabby !" 

"Yes,  they  air  nice,  every  one  of  'em.  I  was 
dretful  'fraid  when  you  put  in  that  last  stick 
o'  wood,  that  you'd  burn  the  fruit  cake;  it's  so 
hard  to  bake  fruit  cake  without  burnin'  it.  Now 
I'll  make  the  tea,  Mirandy,  an'  set  the  table 
while  you  wash  up  the  bake  dishes." 

"How  good  that  silver  cake  smells,  Aunt 
Tabby,  but  some  how  I — I  don't  feel  hungry,  I 
don't  b'lieve  I  shell  want  much  supper." 

"No,  I  don't  s^pose  either  of  us  '11  eat  much 
after  bakin'  so  many  rich  cakes,  but — why,  for 
massy  sakes  alive,  Merandy  Jenkins,  if  you  ain't 
a-washin'  them  plates  with  the  I.  W.&  S.  cloth !" 


Un>«"!S.;',  MRBARY  FACILITY 


Utuu  71^90 

DUE  2  WKS  FROM  DA]E  RECEIVED 
REC'D  ID  URl 


JAN   0  3  1991 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY' 


A    000  132  171     0 


I 


IH 


Un; 


